Sand finds every seam.

It grinds the teeth of quiet things.

My shadow drags a thin long ring

across the fence I swore was “mine.”

Tremolo—heat shimmer on wire,

a slow machine thudding under the sun.

I don’t ask for mercy.

I ask for room.

Let the chain talk—

not loud, not proud.

Just honest metal in an open mouth.

Let the chain talk.

A link knocks once, then learns the pulse,

cold answer to a hot horizon.

I practiced stillness like a skill,

kept my hands clean by keeping them empty.

Now the bass crawls low, dust-thick,

and every step rewrites my limit.

If I drew the line,

I can redraw it.

Let the chain talk—

a rough small hymn.

No choir, no halo—just grit and wind.

Let the chain talk.

Count the posts.

Count the breaths between them.

Don’t rush the gate—

listen for the hinge.

(beat heavier, metallic hits)

One link…

then another…

until the air gives way.

Let the chain talk.

Let it say what I wouldn’t.

Wide space, dry light, low drum—

let the chain talk.

Let it talk.