Twisted Nerve...
So cold—yet he baptizes himself under winter’s skin
A wanderer forging his pulse on the anvil of becoming.
Eve has misplaced her faith in Darwin’s patient equations,
Though evolution still murmurs its verdict beneath the dust.
Fossils gossip in the lockers ,
Hollow trophies of a world that worships glitter over gravity.
And sympathy drifts like a tired comet,
Searching for true companions on the event horizon
Where black holes weigh the sincerity of every soul.
He is still learning the alphabet of walking,
For childhood shell‑shocks rewrote the grammar of his bones.
Demons now breathe comfortably in daylight,
While gods sketch drunken constellations,
Planning their next celebration instead of salvation.
Imhotep scans the dunes for an heir,
But we are busy sculpting sandcastles
That surrender to the tide before the moon even rises.
We measure distance from perihelion,
Yet drift further from the rightful sun we were meant to orbit.
Still—he waits for his appointed hour.
He knows blood is not the syntax of victory,
Yet he has fallen silent before the Bald Man of peace,
Hoping someday he will witness
A crimson bird ascending the red sky.
A sign that ambition, struggle, and destiny
Have finally learned to share the same breath...
Vipul Arwade
13.12.2025
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