Eliminate or delineate
Everything that carries weight—
A name, a war, or even fate.

Sigh before the weak even speak.
King or queen does not greet
Peasants!

Two souls collide in the quiet expanse,
Where silence breaks to an ancient dance.
He is logic, cold and withdrawn—
I, the silence just before dawn.

He and I—by fate entwined—
Mining the ether as truths unwind.
Sworn to reveal what the gods withhold,
Etching our life in celestial gold.

Atoms fuse in sacred designs,
Aging starlight in cosmic lines.
With the shock of death, a truth rung:
Not two, not none—nothing ever begun.

Barking beasts fear dusk's descent;
Might holds sway while light is lent.
Silent hunters claim the flame;
Midnight seals the reaper’s name.

Yet dawn disputes the night’s domain—
Too fierce a steed for reason’s rein.
As morning cloaks the crypts in mist,
The moon gleans what men have missed.

Nature roars with a gentler will—
Not like men, who plunder and ****.

Each moment, a leaf lets go;
Luck kneels low to spring's bright glow.
Dormant breeze sweeps through the land,
As buried riches seize the crown.

No stranger I to this raw lore:
From dust I rose—I thirst no more.
At nature’s feast, I stake my reign—
Its quiet gold: my rightful mane.

You gaze—yet truth has slipped the frame,
A tide too vast for thought to claim.
In vaulted halls where echoes fail,
Sound stalks like smoke, too thin to trail.

We dream in frames we cannot fuse,
See fractured signs and call them truths.
The sun must drown for stars to speak,
While cycles turn, and silence reaps.

Eyes half-shut miss the arc of skies,
And worship forms as if they're wise.
But those who cling will hear the chime—
Again and again.
Time breaks its crown, then reigns in rhyme.

Mathematics weeps on the altar of schemes;
Logic, betrayed, is the servant of dreams.
Ideals lie broken where strategy treads;
Matter and meaning are stitched by the dead.
Out of the void, a spear draws breath—
In it, the riddle of life and death.
Shall gods yet wield what gods did lose?
The weapon born where thought must bruise.

To build a man from stone and spark—
Not every hand can leave that mark.
He took his time, a slow-moved flame,
Not born for speed, but carved for fame.

The egg unhatched till stars aligned,
A soul too sharp for humankind.
He walked with weight, not just with pace,
Each step flattened their shallow grace.

No need for words, his silence kills,
A gaze that bends the strongest wills.
You stare too long, the truth runs red—
He lives, while others lie there dead.