A Poem by Taranis Stormborne
They carved the stone while I still breathed,
The blood not dried on mother’s brow.
My name was spoken not with love,
But like a curse the tribe would disavow.
The fire crackled but not for me,
No meat passed down by elder’s hand.
I watched the smoke rise like a ghost
Above a world I’d never understand.
Their eyes were flint.
Their backs like stone.
My brothers looked, then looked away.
I was not child. I was not kin.
I was the price they chose to pay.
I walked into the weeping trees,
Each branch a wound I could not see.
The ground did not resist my weight.
The wilds at last remembered me.
A boy of eight. A heart struck down.
But storms remember where they’re born.
The silence wrapped around my bones.
And made me something more than scorn.
They taught me I was less than breath,
But wind and wolf still knew my name.
The rain did not deny my steps.
The storm would never speak of shame.
Have you ever felt cast out not in body, but in soul?
Share your thoughts. The fire still burns, and there’s room beside it.
Thank you for walking this path through exile and memory with us.
© written and created by ELHewitt
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