Ode to the Unconquered Pulse

Beneath the cloak of stars, where shadows scheme,

A spark is born—not seraph’s gift, but yours.

No dirge for hearts that beat in tempest-scream,

Nor laurels laid where doubt’s pale ivy pours.

Rise! Crack the crypt where borrowed mantras rust—

The crown you seek is forged in storms you trust.

Let Caesar’s ghost not chain you to his throne—

What empire breathes in echoes? Build your own!

Not marble halls, but sinew, sweat, and verse,

Where Byron’s ache and Shakespeare’s wrath converse.

The script? Unwritten. Ink? Your fractured years.

The plot? A life that bleeds, yet conquers fears.

You think the night won’t yield? Then be the dawn.

Let skeptics rot where stagnant pools breed scorn.

For every scar that maps your battle’s toll,

Is proof you’ve danced with wolves and kept your soul.

What’s time? A jester’s jest, a thief’s weak ploy—

You! Architect of grief and reckless joy.

No hallowed ground for those who kneel and plead—

The brave plant flags where angels fear to bleed.

Let cannons roar your name in molten breath,

Then pause… and carve sonnets from the brink of death.

For glory’s not in trophies, cold and shrined,

But fires lit when mortal sparks are twined.

So when the dirge of “never” clangs its lie,

When faceless crowds chant “fall”—leap past the sky.

Let doubters gawk, let sycophants decay,

Your worth needs no throne… only to obey

The rebel hymn that thrums in veins unbent—

To live unbound, yet bleed entirely spent.