i am starving
not for bread
but for the thing beneath bread
the offering
the hand that extends without being asked
i have too much pride for that
i am an artist
which means i have learned
to turn the wound into the window
and stand behind the glass
watching the world eat
these dreaming eyes
have looked so long at the sky
they have forgotten
how to see what is close
they cry into the night
the way rivers cry into the sea
not knowing they are already home
and still i return to the earth
unwise enough to keep wandering
with bones that have broken
and knit themselves wrong
and broken again
into something almost beautiful
i wander for love
the way sisyphus climbs
not because the summit waits
but because the climbing
is the only honest thing left
i wander for life
and somewhere in the wandering
the question rises like smoke
what does it mean to die
not the body’s ending
but the self’s long rehearsal of it
the small deaths we practice
every time we choose pride over hunger
so i tell myself stories
the only religion i have ever trusted
i say
if i die tonight
do not bury me small
let me be reborn as the world itself
as the dirt that holds the root
as the root that holds the tree
as the tree that holds the bird
that sings into the dark
not because anyone is listening
but because silence
is too heavy to carry alone
let me learn at last
what i could not learn inside this skin
to love without condition
to live without apology
to be
not the artist starving at the window
but the window
the light
the hand
the offering
—lyra moon (you spend half your life hiding behind the glass, only to realize you were the view all along)
june 25, 2026