Sonnet I: The Cosmogonical
Precipitancy
In amethystine halls where aeons drift,The Demiurge distilled the stellar dew;From nothingness, a tectonic uplift,Where supernovas pulsed in cobalt hue.His hands, calloused by the nebulous grime,Fashioned the fractals of the fourth degree,Defying the entropic toll of time,With geometric, grand hyperbole.But hubris is a slow-dissolving salt,That curdles in the chalice of the mind;He sought the uncreated, primal fault,The singularity he could not bind.Now gravity, a jealous, dark cabal,Orchestrates the architect’s inaugural fall.
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