Funktogivzah

The air hangs thick,

a humid blanket pressed

against the thin glass of the window.

Not the window of a fortress,

but a simple pane, reflecting

a sky that refuses to choose a color.

There is this thing they say,

this narrative of necessity,

a tightrope walk where the only safety net

is the obliteration of the other side.

But who built the rope?

And whose weight

is truly being measured?

The ones with no easy exit,

their footsteps echoing softly

in rooms they barely own.

They carry no sword,

no shadow stretching long

to menace the comfortable.

Their only crime, perhaps,

is existing in the path

of an unchecked ambition.

And the family unit,

unaware of the calculus being performed

in distant, air-conditioned rooms,

the quiet dinner, the shared joke—

a tapestry of ordinary moments,

unthreatened, yet somehow judged

as collateral damage

in a game no one explained the rules of.

Your arrogance, a polished stone,

smooth from constant turning in the palm,

believes the finality of the act

will solidify your ground.

But permanence is a myth whispered

by those who haven't seen the tide

reclaim the sandcastle.

The occupation isn't yours alone.

Other hands, other blueprints,

are already sketching on the edges

of the landscape you claim to command.

They are building their own scaffolding,

layer upon layer, while you are caught

in the furious demolition of what stood before.

The noise of your current endeavor,

the grinding gears of disruption,

drowns out the subtle shift in the atmosphere.

It’s the sound of repositioning,

not victory.

When the dust settles,

and the immediate targets are obscured,

you look around for the horizon you sought to conquer.

But the horizon has folded itself inward.

The new perspective isn't a clear view

of undisputed territory.

It’s the same landscape, yes,

but seen through lenses warped by the haste of the taking.

The shadows stretch differently now.

The foundations you thought were yours

are merely borrowed space,

and the silence left behind

is not the silence of submission,

but the quiet calculation

of those who watch the architect stumble.

The realization dawns, slow and cold,

that in removing the perceived obstacles,

you only cleared the view

for those who were waiting patiently,

not to fight your battles,

but to build their own sun

on the ruins of your overconfidence.

The 'new perception' is just the old ground,

baptized in unnecessary effort.

The shadow you cast,

a sprawling dark thing,

your own undoing,

I watch it unfurl.

It tastes of high places,

of mountains you claimed

were only footholds

for your soaring ego.

Arrogance, a sharp perfume,

that clings to your words,

a belief that the whole map

was drawn just for your walking.

You see the world as a mirror,

reflecting only the sharp angles

of your self-made throne.

And I see the cracks beginning to show.

This destruction,

it isn't sudden

Flat line

Scandalous