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.
This poem conjures a weapon not of war, but of paradox—a spear born from the rift between logic and dream, order and chaos. Mystic Spear is a mythic riddle, questioning whether fallen gods or flawed mortals can wield ultimate power without having the courage to go beyond thought itself
