A tilt of the head, a feline grace,
The quietest storm in a crowded space.
He doesn’t demand the air or the light,
He just holds the gravity, steady and tight.
Two crescents bloom when the shadows part,
A clockwork mind and a marble heart.
He counts the beats that the others might miss,
The bridge between the roar and the abyss.
With eyes like flint and a voice like silk,
A gentle strength of a different ilk;
He leads with a whisper, sharp and refined,
The youngest anchor that the stars could find.