**"Lineage of Shadows"**

The descendants are not blood, but echoes—  

ghost-whispers etched in the marrow of your becoming,  

a cipher spiraling through the blackened mirrors  

of every ancestor’s unwept tear.  

Truth isn’t buried; it *breathes* where you refuse to look—  

in the fissured atlas of your guilt,  

the silent pact with the wolf at the spine’s root,  

the way your laughter fractures when moonlight  

touches the scars you’ve renamed "strength."  

The dark side of the soul isn’t a place—  

it’s the choreography of all you’ve exiled:  

hungers that outlive their cages,  

fables your hands wrote in the womb’s ink  

before the world forced them to forget.  

To solve the riddle of your lineage,  

dig where the map bleeds—  

where shadows aren’t flaws, but the braille  

of a deeper gravity.  

The crypt is you.  

The key is trembling.