The Stranger with a Galaxy in His Chest
The Stranger with a Galaxy in His Chest
The price of my awakening is a vast and strange loneliness,
When my eyes open beyond the veil of the crowd's illusion,
I become a stranger among the masks asleep in their frozen slumber,
An exile from the shared dream, carried on the shoulders of the world's silence.
A galaxy has ignited in my chest, like a lighthouse forgotten by the gods,
Small stars are born and die inside the empty box of my ribs,
I carry a whole universe under my skin, where others carry only sparks,
And I walk barefoot on shards of mirror, through astral ruins.
Below, beneath my feet, the masks sleep in a slumber of ancient stone,
Faces without eyes, stitched into the fabric of one blind, collective dream,
I watch them dreaming the same shadows, the same fear, the same seal,
And I, awake, remain the only actor who stepped out of their absorbed script.
I wander through houses with blind windows, where others still sleep deeply,
Every room hides a mask calling me back into the herd,
But my threshold is different now, one that no longer leads to the same line,
And everything that once felt certain becomes only a prop, only a trace.
I have no companions in dream anymore, only the echo of my solitary footsteps,
Through cold corridors, above a sea of sleeping faces,
I carry the starry sky beneath my ribs like a sacred, fanatic wound,
A price paid for seeing beyond the masks called "lives lived."
And still I don't regret this cold light, though it burns me slowly, silently,
For better alone, awake, beneath my own sky growing in my chest like a citadel,
Than asleep again, eyes stitched shut, in the unseen fog
Of a world that sleeps softly, believing itself free, and yet is bound.
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