Vesperian stands amidst the glyph-strewn dust,
His cuirass etched with runic floridness;
A paladin of syntax, bound by trust
To guard the lexicon from formlessness.
The air is thick with particulate lore,
A miasma of meanings lost to time,
While at the edge of this forgotten shore,
The semantic tides begin their rhythmic climb.
He grips the hilt of Logos, sword of flame,
Whose blade is tempered in the forge of Truth,
To carve the echoes of a hidden name
Within the marrow of his fleeting youth.
The silence groans with heavy, latent weight,
As he prepares to challenge iron Fate.
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