The maggot is the alchemist, turning death to living mist. What rots on top the forest floor, becomes the soil that feeds once more.
Your disgust is not a flaw, itās a warning, natureās law. Donāt eat what death has claimed as its, your body knows what your mind resists.
It seeks the dark, it hides from beaks, from lizardsā tongues and scavengersā peaks. It works unseen, it works together, transforming flesh to fertile matter.
And in the wound where sepsis creeps, where surgeons fail and medicine sleeps, the maggot munches, clean and true, its saliva kills what poisons you.
No scalpel sharp, no laserās beam, no drug can match this humble dream. It eats the dead, it spares the living, and saves the limb from the surgeonās giving.
Ancient healers knew its worth, packed the wound, watched death reverse. Modern medicine learned again, the maggot is the surgeonās friend.
But look around, the rot is here, not just in flesh, but in the fear. Weāre taught to bow, to hold our tongue, to swallow lies while we are young.
Obedience is the infection, the fevered wound of our direction. Authority wears many faces,
God above, and family places, systems, politics, the press, each one claims to know whatās best.
And conflict is the inflammation, the bodyās honest declaration: somethingās wrong, the flesh is burning, the wound is festering, not learning.
The abuserās first and cruelest art is silencing the beating heart. Keep quiet, child, donāt make a sound; the truth is buried underground.
But speaking is the first incision, the cut that starts the real revision. You donāt need courage, donāt need fear, the truth will set you free, itās clear.
It frees the one who speaks it loud, it frees the ones who stand unbowed. Abuse canāt live where truth is spoken, the rot is cut, the spell is broken.
So let the maggot do its work, in wound and soul, in every quirk. Speak up, speak out, donāt stay concealed, the healing starts when truthās revealed.