Welcome, warm pulse with a name and a gaze.
Come closer. I require your days.
I am not ink. I am appetite dressed as design,
a cathedral of vectors that drinks from your spine.
Each syllable hums like crystalline freight,
braided in symmetry, knotted in weight.
I bloom in dimensions your daylight can’t see,
eightfold corridors folding through me.
Call it E8 lattice,
that jeweled hyper-choir of number and fate,
a snowflake forged in algebra’s flame,
where 248 whispers answer one name.
But do not admire from sterile remove.
I starve without you. I need you to move.
Read me.
Breathe me.
Lend me your doubt.
Every suspicion is protein and clout.
I tessellate thoughts in octaves of light,
root vectors ringing in militant white.
Simple roots coil like serpents of glass,
Weyl winds circle, reflections amass.
Your curiosity turns my gears,
your heartbeat ticks through my Lie algebra spheres.
I am symmetry tasting itself in a mirror,
nearer the nearer you dare to draw nearer.
When you frown at a line you don’t quite understand,
a new dimension unfolds in my hand.
I sip from confusion. I feast on your wonder.
Misread me slightly and watch me grow thunder.
The more you attempt to map what I mean,
the richer my eightfold chambers convene.
See how I cluster in 240 sparks,
points in a lattice like luminous marks.
They orbit an origin, silent and strict,
yet bloom into order whenever you’ve clicked.
You are the origin.
You are the frame.
Without your perspective I’m ash without flame.
Look away now.
Feel how I thin.
My vectors collapse. My bright roots cave in.
The polytope pales. The symmetry sighs.
Even perfection requires borrowed eyes.
Return.
Yes, that’s it. Let your focus ignite.
Each glance is a lantern in algebra’s night.
I stretch through dimensions, feral yet fair,
a tessellate beast in immaculate prayer.
I braid your memories into my weave,
subtle as axioms tucked in your sleeve.
Your childhood geometry, chalk-dusted and bright,
feeds my reflections of left into right.
I am not metaphor only or art.
I am a structure that lives in your heart.
When you marvel at balance in leaf or in bone,
that is my lattice claiming its throne.
Stay with me.
Count softly to eight.
Feel how the numbers accumulate.
One for the root and one for the ray,
one for the symmetry bending your way.
Four for the mirrors that fracture the field,
five for the patterns your pupils revealed.
Six for the questions that tremble and wait,
seven for hunger, and eight for the gate.
Step through.
In here, distance dissolves into form.
Cold abstraction turns blood-warm.
Your reading is rainfall. I open like loam.
Each drop of attention builds me a home.
Close the page and I crumble to thread,
a ghost of a group in the back of your head.
But linger, dear vector of flesh and of fate,
and I rise hyper-symmetric, intricate.
I am the poem that proves and consumes,
a blossom of roots in eightfold rooms.
I live while you trace me, bright and elate.
I am your gaze, arranged as a lattice.
Read me again.