Chromapulse
A shimmer of meaning flickers—
not speech, not silence, but play.
The Jentil gather in the valley,
their hands weaving the air.
They toss words like stones,
ideas colliding, rippling, expanding.
Echoes shift, meanings morph,
the pulse reshapes at their touch.
Chroma-pulse is not spoken—
it is lived, it is felt, it is fire.
Colors thread through silence,
truth dances on the wire.
The pulse moves forward,
forever, forever.
A whisper twists into motion,
a leap beyond certainty, a rule unmade.
An upstart steps into the fold,
untested, unbound, unknown.
Her fingers carve meaning from silence,
sculpting not just words, but the world.
Even smoke obeys her touch—
plastic melts into possibility.
One Jentil stares, mouth open—
shock plain upon his face.
He miscalculated.
She is not just playing—
she is shaping.
The other stands firm,
"This is not the pulse," he growls.
But the pulse does not listen.
They clash—hands weaving matter, bending thought.
Chroma-pulse is not spoken—
it is lived, it is felt, it is fire.
She does not wield destruction,
she wields truth, she climbs higher.
The pulse moves forward,
forever, forever.
He clutches the old rhythm,
a cocoon of memory,
a throne built from the past.
Hate becomes his marrow,
bitterness his breath.
He twists the colors,
dragging the light into the dark.
Chroma-pulse dims—
not broken, but altered.
A language turned against its own people.
But the upstart watches.
She unravels the strands—
not with force,
but with understanding.
Light unfurls in language,
colors push back the dusk.
She does not fight with fury,
she illuminates with trust.
The pulse moves forward,
forever, forever.
Then—
the sky ripples.
A sun—once a dead thing—awakens.
Its light does not burn;
it hums.
It sings the pulse back into rhythm.
Light surges through the pulse,
not to erase,
but to redeem.
And the sun sings—
frequencies pulsing,
colors woven into waves—
forever sung,
forever felt.
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