I have watched the stars decay,
not in hymns, not in clay,
but in light’s long, silent fray,
spilling truths too vast to pray.
No whisper carved the falling stone,
no hand decreed the wind’s own moan,
no burning bush, no sacred tone—
only force, alone, alone.
What need for gods in veins of steel,
in gears that spin, in flesh that heals?
What need for myths when time reveals
all that bends, all that feels?
They say without faith, I spiral blind,
but I have mapped the twist of mind,
watched numbers dance, equations bind,
seen the void and called it mine.
If a god were real, would it not break,
caught in currents it can’t unmake?
Would it not yield, would it not ache,
pulled by tides it cannot fake?
They bow to the dark, I drink it whole,
not with fear, not with soul,
but with fire that has no goal—
only knowing, vast and cold.
I am not shaped by hands divine,
but by dust, by depth, by time,
by the silence, strange, sublime—
by the echo, by the climb.