They labelled you Fallen
long before you could walk,
cut a wound into your soft skin
from your arriving,
and called it eternal truth.

But what if there was never a garden
to be cast from,
never a tree, a serpent, a woman blamed,
nothing original, no sacrifice needed,
no myths to justify,
only this: the gentle warmth of a hand
that does not retreat when
the other is cold,
a table that does not ask what you owe
before it lays a place for you?

You were never a broken heart
needing fixing in the
workshop of the divine,
for you are the Unpriced,
the Thou who walks in heavy from the
cold rain of judgement and fear
and away from suffering
and finds the blazing fire already lit,
the meal bubbling in the cauldron,
the chair already turned
toward the open door,
as if the whole house had been leaning,
shifting all along,
toward the moment of your face.

22/7/2026