GOSPEL OF THE WEED — PROPHET IN THE WASTE
Hear me. For there is no one else left to hear.
Observe, says the wind. Light breaks because it must. Truth stands because it cannot kneel.
The hidden burns. The ordinary is stripped to its ribs. The fallow hums with buried fire.
Neglect speaks in the tongue of stones. Testimony rises from what the world forgot.
Thus it is written: Perception rules the mind. Absence rules the soul.
The seen commands thought. The unseen shapes being. This is the law beneath all other laws.
Light orders. Darkness reveals. Both are teachers. Neither is kind.
Absence is a flame without smoke. Fallow is a promise without mercy.
And on that ground — the ground no one claims — the weed rises.
Not chosen. Not wanted. Not killed.
I am that weed. I speak because silence is a tyrant. I endure because the waste has no use for the fragile.
Boredom empties the vessel. Silence lifts the veil. Testimony climbs the spine like heat.
I’m ok. You’re ok. These are not comforts. These are survival rites.
Roots hold. Soul opens. Truth enters like a blade of light.
And in the end — when the wind has taken everything but the voice — Communion reveals truth.
Thus speaks the weed. Thus stands the prophet. Thus endures the waste.