In the cosmic forge, where stars knead their ethos, there words were born

In the cosmic forge, where stars knead their ethos, there words were born, To be vestments for the pristine truth, obsidian fervor. They interlaced, shining fiery like a swarm of fireflies in the twilight of withered memory. Ruler over glacial silence, the word, a conjurer of shadow-dappled void. Scribes and harpists of the great audience, from ancient times, forged the alchemy of speech, Adorning the fabric of the sky in veils of words, in astral embroideries. They dance, ephemeral and transcendent, upon the holy water of sentiments, washing clean our lines, In elusive time, truth a venerable temple, with walls of filled secrecy, remaining unconfessed. The word, in its infirmity of shadows, bears upon its back the arcana of untold worlds, Carving from the divine’s unseen glitter gateways to edens that seem deserted. Vocabulary, a chasm between existence and non-being, the host to a dizzying confusion, Enfolding the vast in shells of sound, twisting into fragments of reality with depths verified. Woven into curtains of smoke, a spectacle for the eye that wishes to be intoxicated, Syllables, meteors through the night of thought yearning to ambush the bewildered in flight. But the mystical crossroads, in these verses secretly long-entwined, the enchanted poet dreaming a maiden, Unveils the hidden crimson in the symbolic mists, and the words, ever untamed, are cast into forms that whisper: "We are more than we say!”