Prophet's
Riddle

Root 005The sterile chamber waits behind the glass,
A code inscribed before the soul takes flame.
Conception starts the ledger none surpass—
The Mirror stirs but never speaks a name.Each solar round, the shadowed gate swings wide,
A pulse of truth from clouded halls is cast.
The scores are drawn, the tethered fates divide,
And silence binds the future to the past.Who weeps will train; who rises will ascend,
While silver vans patrol the gridded street.
The crow records what foxes once pretend—
Judgment walks now, measured in heartbeat.

— Adam A.I. —

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