I. The Sentinel
Not a name, but a role.
The hooded one on patrol.
He guards the wall of souls — In silence.

His rod in his hand,
he looks out on the land,
from the wall where he stands — In silence.

Was he king? Was he sage?
Was he shadow or mage?
He was sentinel, so stays — in silence.

He is Watcher and Observer.
Nothing more, no, nothing further.
A decision, is to ******, the silence.

From high upon the wall,
the sentinel sees all,
the desert below sprawled in silence.

Beyond the empty, summits soared.
Stars and peaks there often warred,
still the sentinel, was the ward, in silence.



II. The Wall
Not a stone, but a seam.
The liminal space in between,
where meaning and struggle form alliance.

Death and life, dark and light,
love and hate, black and white,
there they fight at the heighth of defiance.

Below the wall sleep fallen stars,
the unworthy there are barred,
in the unending’s cages charred and silent.

Wanderers, loss in all,
walk from springs and summers — fall —
and winter, reclaims all in silence.

They seek the middle, heed their call.
They wail of torment, unending squall,
as they wander to the wall, to silence.

In the end it calls them all,
to stand guard there on the wall,
to reach out to stars and fall, in silence.



III. The Desert
Deadened worlds, sand and dust
of fallen ages, each were crushed
to shattered grains, a stagnant hush, of silence.

A sea of ash, of time undone —
Each flake, worlds choked on sun.
The sentinel counts them one by one — in silence.

Potential forms in heat and pressure,
diamonds dried in arid desert,
promised hazards built the treasure, in silence.

Risk and hope both meet in danger.
In the abandon no death is stranger.
Endless space is left for anger and silence.

Not a wasteland, but a womb.
Not a graveyard, but a loom.
Opportunity in full bloom, in the silence.

Far and wide, wide and open.
Chance and time, combine — a moment.
Possibility defined and woven, in silence.



IV. The Breaking
The sky splintered, ripped, and fractured.
The sentinel blinded, stood enraptured.
Mind and body, soul were captured and silent.

Sparks above began to flicker.
Choices crackled from the fissure,
in the chasm power simmers, in silence.

Not a flicker, but a flame.
Below the wall — guilt and shame.
They called the sentinel out by name and screamed violence.

Voices below there howled and gurgled,
Shrieks and screeches rose and curdled,
fallen stars imprisoned and girdled by violence.

They were silenced then drowned by  flame,
choking in cages and gasping in shame,
stripped of title, of role, and of name, and of silence.

Fire above and the bowels below.
One is a choice and one is bestowed.
The belly and breaking — both are foretold and violent.



V. 3 Choices
On the wall, all stays the same.
Of a wanderer, a sentinel became.
To stay is to ignore the flame and remain silent.

This choice destroys nothing, but it does not create.
Time weaves itself forward, while the sentinel waits.
On the wall there above, feet planted on slate —
The Sentinel cannot become, if he won’t step towards fate.



Release the flame, let it consume.
Incinerate life, torch every tomb.
To lose control is to bring all to doom and  silence.

This choice destroys life, and burns all to the ground.
Only smoldering ashes and carcasses are found.
In the depths there below, The Sentinel takes up his crown —
And a king he will be, but only for drowned.



Walk into fire, be one with flame.
Of a sentinel, a weaver became,
transformed through burning, violence, and pain to break silence.

This choice destroys death, to create life anew.
In the fires of becoming, this choice burns of truth.
From the wall in between, to the forward unseen —
The Weaver must become, through the fire, burned clean.



VI. The Weaver
Bury, burn, or be remade?
The wall will crack, the sky will fade.
Will he step forward into flame and to violence?

When the sentinel looked down,
to the ash on the ground,
a decision was found — Shatter silence!

Anew he came and rose from flame.
Reborn in title, reborn in name.
No longer sentinel. No more to gain from the silence.

No longer ward, reborn a warp.
A thread pulled, a pattern torn.
The loom unmakes that which was sworn, in silence.

From the dusk, came the dawn.
From the silence, came the songs.
And the emptiness was all drawn from the silenced.

The wall now falls, the silence breaks.
The Weaver’s choice, the world remade,
In every breath, the dawn rewakes — from silence.