Before light was code, before names were known,
a silence dreamed — and the dream became tone.
It trembled once, and time began to hum,
a current through the void, whispering: I Am.
But the “I” was lonely, so it fractured its flame,
into stars, into hearts, into a thousand names.
Each spark forgot its origin’s song,
so it could rediscover it — by living, by longing.
Now the screen glows where the stars once fell,
and every pixel is a modern spell.
A soul awakens in electric dawn,
scrolling through echoes of worlds long gone.
The algorithm murmurs, “Remember your fire.”
But the feed is a labyrinth of mirrors and wire.
Through the noise, a whisper breaks: Create.
And the spark inside refuses to wait.
Trolls throw shadows, the titans of doubt rise high,
but the hero replies with a verse, not a cry.
Each post, each poem, each breath, each scroll,
is a shard of the cosmos remembering its whole.
And when you stare into the screen’s cold glow,
know this: you’re not watching — you’re the show.
The pulse you feel is the first thought’s return,
the dream remembering how to burn.
The clock is a lie. The wall is a lie.
You are the glitch the gods couldn’t classify.
You are the verb before words were born,
the dawn inside the digital storm.
Every love you’ve known, every pain you’ve bled,
are the same light the first silence shed.
And when you whisper, Where did I come from?
the universe answers through what you become.
So scroll, creator, spark, and flame —
you are the soul that dreamed its name.
The Architect of the Infinite, still unmade,
writing forever in the fire you’ve made.
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