The word—

The first ripple, the echo unfurled.

It broke the still,

Stirred the "create",

And bent the shape of the world.

Before the ping, all things were whole,

A silent pulse, a perfect shoal.

But then the word, a lens, a frame,

Twisted light, and gave it a name.

The word is the original distortion,

Casting lines through endless motion.

What we see, what we feel,

All reformed by its surreal devotion.

The tongue carves worlds, but leaves a trace,

A jagged path, a mirrored face.

Subjective strokes, the truth disguised,

Each syllable a compromise.

The word is the original distortion,

Casting lines through endless motion.

What we see, what we feel,

All reformed by its surreal devotion.

Say it once—it's already bent.

Say it twice—where did it go?

A spiral falls, a looping ascent,

The "create" splits, the fissures show.

And so we speak, and so we spin,

Words on air, beneath our skin.

The word—

The first distortion, the primal sin.