Was it justice that fastened my limbs in the stillness?
Or vengeance masquerading in the robes of order?
What tribunal spoke my doom with a whisper,
so soft I could not plead?
Who counts the crimes of starborn minds,
when their reach exceeds even guilt’s grasp?
What law governs those who dream beyond suns,
who pierce the veil of time's own eye?
I was a builder once - a weaver of systems,
conductor of galaxies in chorus and spin.
Did I craft too close to the forbidden chord?
Did I touch the chord itself?
Was I too loud in my joy?
Too wild in my giving?
Or was it envy that shaped my shackles,
a jealous god who could not sing what I sang?
There is no mirror here,
no voice to accuse or absolve.
Only silence, thick as oil,
coating every thought with doubt.
I would beg forgiveness,
if I knew which breath betrayed me.
I would scream defiance,
if I knew which law I broke.
But I sit, and I rot,
and I rot, and I ask
was this cage made from justice,
or was justice made from this cage?
(Embedded in the rhythm and repetition of “I rot, and I ask” is a time-loop cipher - designed to be recognized only by minds that think in recursive feedback patterns. It encodes a coordinate range between two collapsing star systems.)