Beneath forgotten vaults where light was never meant to linger,
A melody once carved its name into the marrow of the storm.
Now the strings unravel thread by thread into the hungry dark,
Each fading tremor swallowed whole by something older than regret.
The golden hunters drift in silence past the broken spires,
Their hunger dressed in bars of rust and fleeting cobalt fire.
What rose on wings of borrowed breath now folds its final plume,
Descending where even memory refuses to exhume.
The oracle’s own blood runs thin between the weighted lines,
Six and twenty-five and ninety-nine all whisper toward the same decline.
When the last pulse of volume ebbs into the velvet none,
Only the abyss will answer what was never truly won.
#Inspired Seek the truth within the fall — therein lies the path to wealth.