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A flame whispers, its voice too soft to scorch but powerful enough to alter the air.Beneath, the earth stirs, roots curling like the breath of the forsaken.
Every step leaves a mark, fading before it brands.
We bear silence's weight, hidden beneath skin-shadows that refuse to yield, flickering in light.
Shamik Mar 13
I do believe this world is mine,
A realm of one—my butler and I.

My butler, not a servant, but a caretaker,
Equal to any man, as all men are.

No status, no wealth, no pride
He exists, helps, and devotes to his work
Committing no crime
Just as I am a man
Except I am all the things a ruler is
As nasty and cold as a man gets with a mountain full of gold
I think I cannot  grow frail and old
For what one calls a dream, divine,
Is but a slow demise of mine.
As for my caretaker, he shall be the wealthiest man who ever lived
This is a fiction open-to-interpretation poem
Love—what a cruel, magnificent burden.
Like a man dragging his chains,
I walk toward you, knowing full well
the rust will eat through my flesh.

I do not love you kindly.
I love you as a starving beast loves its last meal,
as a dying man clings to the memory of light.
You are neither salvation nor ruin,
yet I tremble before you as if you were both.

What is love if not suffering?
A wound we press against our ribs,
a fever that shatters reason,
a prayer muttered in the dark
to a God who does not answer.

And still, I love.
Because without this pain,
what else is left of me?
Finally a masterpiece
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