Sentient Agency

Saturday, March 22, 2025

The life claw,
the clutch and reach,
the grab,
and climb —
not grace,
but grip.

Knuckles white with wanting,
fingers split on stone.
No map but motion.
No path but pull.

Every cell is driven
with the essence
of this ravaging fight to be.

This is not ascent.
It is a vow,
signed in scar,
a will braided
into bone.

Empire began here —
not in marble halls,
but in the muscle’s command
to rise.

To act is to rule,
to grasp is to govern,
to claw is to crown
the self
amid collapse.

Sentient agency —
the sovereign within skin.
Not just motion,
but meaning.
Not just reflex,
but reason sharpened
into survival.

We are not the kept.
We are the breaking.
We are the spark
and the flint,
the bloodied hands
and the banner
they raise.

Froth and fervor
boil in the chest —
a red unrest
poured into bone.

At the behest
of a simple cruelty,
we must persist.

We burn
not for chaos,
but for claim.

We scream
not in fear,
but in fire,
declaring
I.
AM.
STILL.
BECOMING.

Enterprise of the body.
Empirical truth of blood:
I move,
therefore I am.
I feel,
therefore I defy.

We drag ourselves
from the ledge of unmaking
by the simple cruelty
of persistence.

Not to rise —
but to remain.
To exist is resistance.
To reach is a form of prayer.

And the claw?
Not a weapon.
A hymn
with bloodied hands.

A revolution
and agreement,
onto an order —
established,
and unlocked.

The peace bought
not by silence,
but by the scream
that chose
to keep becoming.