Astral Architects

They stood on clouds that bled with gold, Eyes like comets, ancient, bold. No names, no form, no need to speak— They built with silence, strong and sleek. They drew blueprints in the air, Of dreams too raw for earth to bear. And every motion, every glance, Rewrote the laws of circumstance. Astral Architects, bending fate, Shaping time in a conscious state. Crafting stars from sleepless thought, Framing fire where fear once fought. They showed me how to build what’s true— And whispered, “All we are… is you.” A tower rose with every breath, Made of grief and life and death. A memory staircase, winding tight, With echoes carved in dream light. They spoke in riddles made of flame, I saw my shadow spell my name. And through their hands, I learned to see— That creation is a form of free. Astral Architects, truth unmasked, Wielding thought like sacred task. Lords of form, in void they dwell, Making chaos beautiful as hell. They looked at me and softly said, “Your world begins inside your head.” No chisels here, no hammer’s call— Just will and wonder—that is all. They paint with memory, sketch with pain, And birth whole galaxies from rain. Astral Architects, divine and flawed, Building meaning where none trod. Not gods, not ghosts, not overlords— Just minds that learn to bend their cords. And now I build, and now I see... The Architect was always me. Frame the dream... Forge the sky... With nothing more Than asking... “Why?”