Seven steps carved into the marrow of night, I count the echoes till they fracture the light. A sacred number etched into design, A repeating omen that rewrites the divine. I read in patterns the void never speaks, Sevenfold hunger that the silence seeks. Seven is the stitch in reality’s seam, Where waking dissolves into fractional dream. I don’t cast spells—I negotiate fate, Through seven locked gates where the timelines break. Every number a witness, every step a crime, Seven is the rhythm that bends out of time. Call it what you want—still it bends what you see, Seven is the lock, and I hold the key. Not prophecy… but probability torn into heat, Where endings and beginnings refuse to repeat. Seven shadows walking where memory fails, Seven breaths whispering half-told tales. I don’t predict—I persuade what becomes, Till the future forgets where it comes from. Seven is hunger. Seven is flame. Seven is the absence of anything tame. And I am the one who learns how to see Through the geometry bleeding reality. Sevenfold silence rewriting the sky, Seven truths learning how to lie. And when the last number finally comes undone, Seven becomes zero… and I become none.
