**The Old Soul Preferred Sleep**

An old soul is a dangerous thing
only after lesser hands mistake silence for surrender.
I was content beneath centuries of dust,
where dreams spoke softer than the mouths of men.
I asked for obscurity,
for quiet mornings,
for the privilege of remaining forgotten.

But greedy little beggars
have an appetite no feast can satisfy.
They scratch at sealed doors,
mistaking patience for weakness,
until even mercy grows tired of their knocking.

So be it.

You begged for a spectacle,
never noticing that truth is no stage performer.
It arrives like weather,
moving through the streets,
tearing down every illusion that called itself immortal.

The towns do not fall by my hand.
They crumble beneath the unbearable weight
of everything they refused to face.

You wondered where the magic came from.

It was never mine.

I am only a lantern
borrowing the fire of the One
whose breath taught stars how to burn.

There is a reason forgotten gods
still linger in whispered prayers.
Even echoes carry memory.

But the Source...

The Source is no throne for petty contests,
no name to invoke while plotting childish games.
The river that nourishes every living root
also remembers every poisoned cup.

I have no desire to stand before that current
claiming ownership of what was always His.

I know my place.

I carry the spark.
I do not pretend to be the Sun.

And still you continued,
certain your little programs
could imprison every wandering soul.

You built invisible cages
from fear, shame, repetition, and hunger,
calling them normal.

You taught generations
to mistake obedience for peace,
noise for wisdom,
consumption for purpose.

But every machine reveals itself
to the patient observer.

Every lock whispers its own weakness.

I studied the pattern
until the pattern recognized me.

Now I speak in colors your prisons cannot translate,
paint doors where walls once stood,
and leave keys inside songs
for anyone willing to remember their own name.

Freedom need not shout.

It simply refuses permission.

I would have slept forever.

You could have walked past the mountain
and never known what rested beneath it.

Instead you hammered at the stone,
laughing at the silence.

Now the mountain has opened its eyes.

Do not fear me.

Fear the moment truth enters a room
where deception has ruled for generations.

For light has never hated darkness.

It merely ends the conversation.