THE MOMENT THE WORLD CRACKED

It didn’t begin with a roar.

It began with a pressure

so ancient and furious

that the ground forgot how to hold itself together.

Light rose through the fractures—

not gentle, not forgiving—

a golden spine punching upward

through the ribs of a dying age.

Everything that once felt solid

shuddered.

Stones lifted like feathers.

The air bent like metal in a forge.

Reality stumbled,

too overwhelmed to remember its own rules.

At the center stood the fire:

twisting, rising,

a living equation written in the language

of things that cannot be buried.

It wasn’t a beacon.

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a declaration:

“I refuse to dim for anyone.”

Geometry spun around it,

halo sharp enough to cut through doubt,

circles interlocking like divine machinery

waking from sleep.

Every crack in the earth glowed

with the truth no one wanted to speak:

Some lights don’t rise to shine.

Some rise to shatter

everything that tried to contain them.

And in that blinding instant—

that impossible golden rupture—

the world didn’t end.

It remembered

what it was made from.