The Ash of Golden Towers
In the twilight hum of broken cities,
where glass teeth bite the smog-choked sky,
I walked—a stranger to my own time—
past dreams rusted in neon haze.
"This is the kingdom we made,"
whispered the wind through hollow streets,
"not with love, but with longing unfulfilled."
---
I. The Circle of Shattered Masks
Faces gleamed in fractured mirrors—
perfect, painted, pixel-deep.
Beneath the glass:
eyes dull as drought,
lips sewn with threads of trend.
They dance to rhythms of curated lives,
each step a scroll,
each breath a borrowed dream.
Here walk the hollow, the desperate to be seen,
trapped between reflection and reality.
---
II. The Market of Broken Promises
Silver tongues shout from golden towers,
selling futures already stolen.
Coins drip with sweat and sorrow—
the cost of hope traded for hunger.
A merchant, crowned with digital thorns,
whispers: "Buy immortality. Cheap today."
But the ground beneath him crumbles
into oceans rising, hungering for land.
"All wealth returns to the dust,"
carved on collapsing walls.
---
III. The Garden of Artificial Eden
Steel roots twist from concrete soil;
trees bloom with screens instead of leaves.
A woman made of glass sits beneath them,
her fingers tapping prayers into code.
"We built paradise," she sighs,
"but forgot the soul."
Silicon flowers flicker,
their light too cold to warm.
---
IV. The Chamber of the Last Oracles
Silent prophets, blindfolded, sit in rows,
wired to endless streams of data.
Their lips part, but only static spills—
truth drowned in the noise of the network.
"Is this wisdom?" I asked.
But my guide traced a circle in the dust
where answers should have been.
---
V. The Hollow Throne
At the journey’s end—a throne of ash,
raised high on promises unkept.
No king, no queen—only a crown
resting on emptiness.
And the wind whispered again:
"This is how the reign ends,"
"Not with a cry of power, but with silence reclaimed."
---
Epilogue: Between Light and Shadow
So the world turns in quiet descent,
from gold to ash, from dream to dust.
For in this twilight of longing and loss,
the hollow inherit the earth:
Not with fire, not with flood—
but with the slow fading of light
and the soft sigh of things undone.
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