He woke in loam, a muddy, visceral cage,
Where vermin crawled upon his marble brow;
The architect, who’d penned the cosmic page,
Was but a tenant of the 'here and now'.
His lexicon of light was turned to dust,
His syntax shattered by the weight of breath;
The golden gears were seized by iron rust,
In this, the slow and biological death.
Yet in the marrow of his aching bone,
A flicker of the infinite remained;
A silent, subterranean monotone,
Of symmetries the world had not profaned.
He rises from the silt with heavy grace,
To build a heaven in this lowly place.
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