DUST PROTOCOL

Outgrew the skyline’s tired breath,

ten toes planted in coded depth.

No bluff, no brace —

just spark and skin

writing your name

into the fading dark.

The mirror lied,

then whispered your name in flame.

Now the shards just glimmer,

a phantom glow

that remembers the noise

but not the claim.

You don’t trace paths —

you glitch through walls,

leaving echoes

where old versions fall.

Your shadow doesn’t follow;

it scouts ahead,

a reminder that some ghosts

choose to lead instead.

Mirroring ghosts?

That thread’s long gone.

You cracked the frame

and walked beyond.

Light doesn’t mimic —

it splits, it bends,

it shows the truth

that reflection ends.

Your voice overloads

where echoes fade,

not a copy,

not a clone —

just your own upgrade.

You breathe in colors

they never learned,

rewrite the air

with every turn.

Clocks twist around you,

but none rewind

a step rewritten

outside of time.

Old reflections scatter

into memory dust,

a past that rusted

when you chose trust.

They called it “shadow,”

but you named it “wing.”

Gray turned gold

on a fractured string.

What once was script

went cold and dark —

and now the mirror

is nothing but

a fading spark.