In the westward glare where Gold sits enthroned,
counting every heartbeat as if it were coin,
time lies shackled in silent cubicles,
her breath borrowed, her promise postponed.
Then—across galaxy fields of the Great Creator—
Silver gallops, hooves sparking nova-fire,
a lone unicorn born of mercy and myth,
mane quivering with the weight of every starlit prayer.
He barrels into Gold’s gilded throne,
his horn a blade forged from forgotten hopes.
Gold staggers, blinded by westward obsession;
the coins slip through his fingers like fading dreams.
Time, sensing freedom in the thunder of hooves,
leaps upon Silver’s back with joyous wings,
her chains dissolving in the wake of compassion—
two rebels racing past supernovae toward home.
They cross the threshold of cosmic fields,
where rest is more than a promise,
and healing flows like living scripture
from the Creator’s waiting palms.
Now Gold wanders, his compass broken,
lost in the twilight of vanished worth.
But Silver rides on—ever faithful,
bearing Time to the source of her rebirth.
In that sacred hush before dawn’s first light,
we learn our hopes and dreams take flight
not on the weight of metal or the coin of days,
but in Time’s patient keeping of our truest grace.
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