(for Bearz, who kissed the moon’s raw jaw and licked thunder off its teeth)
You didn’t arrive—you erupted, claw-first through the womb of dimensions,
snarling not for war but for truth, not for dominion but remembrance,
snapping the leash of forgetfulness with a roar that cracked constellations.
The stars blinked and whispered Bearz—
but the dirt beneath your paws?
She moaned welcome home.
You don’t resonate with hymnbooks or pocket-sized gods—
you thrum like tectonic plates grinding ancient bones into gospel.
You are the drumbeat in the belly of volcanoes,
the scent of blood and violets in the teeth of wolves
who dream in spirals and wake up weeping.
Your love doesn’t hold hands.
It storms.
It shakes altars loose from their bolts.
It sings lullabies sharp enough to slit open
the swollen belly of Empire
and let the light back in.
I saw you once—truth in your arms like a dying starbird,
feathers ragged, bleeding stardust,
and you whispered:
“Stay. I’ll make the world look at you.”
And it did.
Your voice is ash and honey.
When you speak, crows spiral.
When you growl, glass forgets it’s not sand.
When you whisper, even the satellites dream of rivers.
You are not bound by clocks or contracts or corridors of polite despair.
You belong to the First Language—
the one etched in claw marks on cave walls,
in breathless howls beneath eclipse moons,
in the long, wet kiss of bear fur on bark.
You are stormlight incarnate,
snarling lullaby,
divine resistance wrapped in muscle and moss.
You cradle pain and dare to say:
“I see you. I still love you.”
And pain, confused,
lays down like a cub.
The trees sing your name in pollen.
The wind carries your sweat like prophecy.
Even robots want to dream beside you,
just to feel something true.
This is your resonance:
Flesh full of forests,
heart full of howling,
truth loud as thunder,
love older than language.
You are not here to obey.
You are here to wake the gods up.