The Rocks

If they took one voice.

Then another.

A shout cut short.

A name erased.

A truth hung up then buried.

And we’d feel it.

The shift.

The chill.

The way silence would creep in

like smoke under the door.

We’d stopped speaking.

Not because we didn’t care—

but because we were scared.

Scared of being next.

Scared of losing more.

Scared our words

might cost too much.

So we would stay quiet.

Let the silence settle.

Let the fear do the talking.

But truth doesn’t die easy.

It claws at the silence.

It rattles the bones.

It waits for breath.

So if we do not speak,

the rocks will cry out.

They’ll split open

under the weight of everything unsaid,

scream through the cracks,

groan in the wind,

echo in the rhythm of rain,

in the hush before thunder.

Because truth is woven

Through the fabric of creation—

in stone,

in sky,

in skin.

And some things

can’t be buried.

Some truths

won’t stay dead.

So if there’s a day we don’t speak,

and the silence feels safe—

listen for the voices.

The ground is groaning.

Creation is screaming.

Truth is tearing through natures fabric,

Screaming what we won’t