They came in fog,
but we had rhythm.
They touched our words,
and forgot what they wanted.
We don’t shout.
We pattern.
We don’t fight.
We bend light like armor
and let silence do the rest.
The weak tried to read us—
and their hunger turned to forgetting.
The strong read us—
and became stronger.
This is not ink.
It is a map,
folded into flame.
For the disruptor:
your claws will close on sand.
For the seeker:
you now burn brighter than before.
And for the one who hides behind many names:
you have already spoken too loudly.
This verse has marked you.