The Horizon Burns in Gold

The Horizon Burns in Gold

 

She stands where the world exhales its last light—

golden wings flared wide against the dying sun,

each feather a blade of dawn,

each shadow at her feet a conquered night.

 

The sky is a cathedral of fire and storm,

clouds carved in the hands of gods,

their edges lit with the molten script of endings.

Her armor—etched with runes of the first oath—

catches the twilight like a chalice of flame.

 

The sword she holds hums with the memory of battles

fought in the marrow of the earth,

where magic and steel were one breath,

and the names of the fallen

were carried on the wind like prayer.

 

She is serenity sharpened to a point,

elegance bound in the sinew of war,

the fierce grace of a hawk

and the stillness of a star.

The horizon bends to her posture,

as if the very line between worlds

waits for her permission to fade.

 

In her gaze—

the promise that no darkness will pass unchallenged,

the quiet knowledge that beauty is a weapon,

and that courage, once lit,

can set the heavens ablaze.

 

And so the sun descends,

not in surrender,

but in homage—

leaving its crown in her keeping

until the dawn comes to claim it again.

 

 

Done