The meek nestles into the dark,
where power hums like a distant storm,
where strength, sharp-edged and waiting,
does not strike, does not break.
It does not cower.
It does not beg.
Fragility leans into force,
where dominion is not destruction
but a burden, a silence, a choice.
The strong does not devour.
The strong does not yield.
Between them, an understanding,
not spoken, not sworn,
but written in breath,
in the weight of stillness,
in the knowledge that power alone
withers without something to shelter,
and meekness alone
shatters without something to bear it.
The world does not see the balance,
but they do,
and so, for now,
they remain, unchallenged,
unbroken.