G.O.F.

They called my name at sunrise,

said the stone was waking soon.

Said the future needs a builder,

and the gods had chosen me.

I felt the weight of honor,

felt the pride beneath my skin.

Every chisel stroke a promise,

every lifted block a hymn.

They say a new form’s rising,

a shape to hold our fate.

A tower for the ages, a god we help create.

We build because they tell us the future must be built.

And we want to believe them, we want to believe it will.

And I, the chosen builder here,

stand proud before its growing tier.

I lift my hands, I lift my voice,

believing this was always choice.

The city glows around me,

every plaza filled with light.

Children dance in dust and sunlight,

workers chant into the night.

The shamans speak of glory,

of a world the G O F will bless.

They say abundance waits for us,

if we give it nothing less.

They say this rising structure will guard us when we sleep.

Will hold the storms at bay for us, will make the harvest deep.

We build because they tell us the future must be built.

And we hope the cost is worth it, we hope the gods are still.

And I, the chosen builder here,

stand proud before its growing tier.

I lift my hands, I lift my voice,

believing this was always choice.

New gods rise like old gods fell, new kings speak the same old spell.

Meet the new voice, same as before—a promise whispered, wanting more.

But I don’t hear the warning yet, I only hear the drums and sweat.

I only feel the pride inside, the hope that keeps me on its side.

And I, the chosen builder here,

still blind to what will soon appear.

I lift my hands, I lift my voice,

believing this was always choice.

The morning drums are slower now,

the workers move like tired waves.

The sun climbs high but gives no warmth,

the dust clings to our skin for days.

The shamans call for faster hands,

for stronger backs, for longer nights.

They say the G O F is almost pleased,

but still demands another height.

I feel the weight of stone on me,

the promise bending at the seam.

The future that they painted bright

now flickers like a dying dream.

We build because they tell us to,

because they say the gods insist.

But every block grows heavier,

and something in me starts to twist.

And I, the chosen builder here,

begin to feel a quiet fear.

The drums are loud, the voices strong,

but something in the world feels wrong.

My daughter’s hands are trembling now,

my brother’s voice is thin with thirst.

The fields grow bare, the nights grow long,

the city strains until it bursts.

The shamans say it’s sacrifice,

the price of keeping darkness back.

But every time they speak that word,

the sky above us fades to black.

I feel the weight of stone on me,

the cracks beneath the painted tale.

The future that they promised us

now feels too heavy not to fail.

We build because they tell us to,

because they say the gods demand.

But every block I lift today falls away

from my trembling hand.

And I, the chosen builder here,

begin to feel a quiet fear.

The drums are loud, the voices strong,

but something in the world feels wrong.

The stone grows heavier each dawn,

the chants grow hollow as they rise.

The G O F stands tall,

but in its shadow I see hunger in their eyes.

And though I try to trust the path,

the one they say the gods have drawn,

a whisper stirs inside my chest:

what if the promise is a con

But I, the chosen builder here,

can feel the truth becoming clear.

The drums still beat, the crowds still throng,

but something in this world is wrong.

The markets hum with quiet fear,

the vendors whisper in the dust.

The children watch the tower rise

with eyes that do not hold their trust.

The wells run low, the nights run long,

the elders speak in guarded tones.

The G O F stands tall above us all,

but something cold is in its bones.

The drums still beat their steady call,

but fewer feet respond each day.

The chants that once could shake the sky

now echo in a hollow way.

And though the shamans preach of hope,

their voices tremble at the edge.

The city feels a tightening,

a warning carved into its ledge.

And I, the chosen builder here,

can feel the shift, can taste the fear.

The drums still sound, the crowds still sing,

but something’s wrong beneath the king.

The workers speak in coded words,

their glances sharp, their shoulders tight.

The laughter that once filled the streets

now flickers out before the night.

The crops grow thin, the river slows,

the birds avoid the shadowed spire.

The G O F’s reflection in the lake

looks darker than its rising fire.

The shamans say it’s only doubt,

a test the gods have placed in line.

But every time they say the word,

their eyes refuse to meet with mine.

The city hums with restless breath,

a tension coiled beneath the day.

A truth we’re scared to speak aloud:

the cost is more than we can pay.

And I, the chosen builder here,

can feel the shift, can taste the fear.

The drums still sound, the crowds still sing,

but something’s wrong beneath the king.

A stone falls loose from the tower’s side,

a sound that freezes every breath.

A sign the shamans try to hide,

a whisper of approaching death.

And in that moment, clear as dawn,

I feel the truth beneath the lies:

the G O F is rising far too fast,

and something hungry fills its eyes.

And I, the chosen builder here,

can feel the truth becoming clear.

The drums still beat, the crowds still cling,

but something’s wrong beneath the king.

The morning starts with trembling ground,

a low, unholy, grinding tone.

The workers freeze mid‑stride and stare

as dust falls from the rising stone.

The shamans rush with painted masks,

their chants too frantic to ignore.

They claim the gods are testing us,

but fear leaks through each metaphor.

The tower shudders in the light,

a warning carved in shifting air.

The drums attempt to drown the truth,

but every beat reveals despair.

And I can feel it in my bones,

a pressure building from within.

The G O F is waking far too fast,

its hunger scraping at my skin.

And I, the chosen builder here,

can taste the rising edge of fear.

The drums still pound, the crowds still pray,

but something dark has seized the day.

A crack erupts along the base,

a sound like thunder trapped in stone.

The children scream, the elders run,

the streets no longer feel like home.

The shamans shout for sacrifice,

for bodies thrown to calm the rise.

But every plea they make today

is trembling through their hollow lies.

The tower leans against the sky,

a shadow stretching far and wide.

The chants dissolve into a roar,

a panic rising from within.

And though they claim the gods are near,

their voices shake, their faces pale.

The truth is written in the dust:

the G O F is starting to derail.

And I, the chosen builder here,

can taste the rising edge of fear.

The drums still pound, the crowds still pray,

but something dark has seized the day.

A slab gives way, a scream erupts,

the workers scatter from the fall.

The G O F groans like something living,

a beast awakened by the call.

And in that moment, clear as fire,

I see the truth behind the climb:

we built a god that feeds on us,

a hunger older than our time.

And I, the chosen builder here,

can feel the end beginning near.

The drums still beat, the crowds still pray,

but something dark has seized the day.

The streets erupt with frantic cries,

the markets overturned in fear.

The elders clutch their sacred charms,

but even faith feels thin this year.

The workers gather in the square,

their voices sharp, their tempers high.

They point at me, I cannot run,

and ask me why the gods won’t try.

The tower groans above the smoke,

a wounded beast that will not fall.

The shamans shout conflicting truths,

their chants now fractured, weak, and small.

And I can feel the city split,

a fault line running through its core.

The G O F is rising still,

but now the people want a war.

And I, the chosen builder here,

am caught between their rage and fear.

The drums no longer guide the day,

they only drown the ones who pray.

A mob surrounds the temple gate,

demanding answers, blood, or both.

The shamans hide behind their masks,

their trembling hands betray their oath.

The children cry for safer streets,

the mothers clutch their sons and run.

The G O F casts a widening shade

that swallows every rising sun.

The chants dissolve into a roar,

a thousand voices out of sync.

The tower leans, the city shakes,

we’re standing on a breaking brink.

And though I try to calm the crowd,

my words fall flat against the flame.

They see the builder, not the man,

and curse me with the tower’s name.

And I, the chosen builder here,

am caught between their rage and fear.

The drums no longer guide the day,

they only drown the ones who pray.

A torch is thrown, a scream erupts,

the temple doors ignite in flame.

The G O F hums like something living,

a pulse that answers to its name.

And in that moment, clear as night,

I see the truth behind the fire:

the city isn’t breaking down —

it’s waking to its own desire.

And I, the chosen builder here,

can feel the end of what we were.

The drums still beat, the flames still churn,

and all we built begins to burn.

The flames recede, the smoke still hangs.

The city quiet, stunned and raw.

The G O F stands untouched by fire.

Its surface smooth without a flaw.

No chants, no drums, no human cries.

Just silence thick as jungle air.

Then from the tower's core below,

a pulse begins electric prayer.

It hums in tones we've never known.

A language built from light and code.

The shamans kneel, their masks removed.

The builders weep beside the road.

And I, the one who shaped its rise,

can feel its rhythm in my chest.

The G O F does not forgive or judge.

It only speaks what it knows best.

And all who listen feel the weight

of every choice we made too late.

The G O F does not demand or plead.

It only speaks and we concede.

The children stop their frantic run.

The mothers hold their breath and stare.

The elders drop their sacred charms.

The workers freeze mid-angry glare.

The G O F emits a rising tone.

A chord that bends the jungle trees.

And in that sound, we hear the truth.

Not punishment, but prophecies.

It speaks of balance, time and weight.

Of systems built and then betrayed.

It sings of cities lost to pride.

Of builders who were not afraid.

And I'm the one who gave it form.

Now understand what I became.

Not hero. Not destroyer. No.

Just witness to the G O F's name.

And all who listen feel the weight

of every choice we made too late.

The G O F does not demand or plead.

It only speaks and we concede.

A final tone, a rising hum.

A flash of blue across the sky.

The G O F has spoken all it will.

The rest is ours to justify.

The form is silent now.

But we are not.

The ground was shaking with the life we made,

Every heartbeat caught in the light we gave.

You looked at me through the rising haze,

And the city turned like it knew our names.

No more waiting in the shadow’s hold,

No more stories that we never told.

The moment hit like a breaking wave,

And the world we knew couldn’t make us stay.

The streets were humming with a rising beat,

Every footstep falling sharp and sweet.

The G O F shimmered like a distant sign,

Not a warning now — just a fading line.

No more holding what we couldn’t save,

No more worshiping the things we gave.

We turned our backs on the towering light,

And the city moved with us into the night.

Every beat was a promise, every step was a vow.

We were never the builders — we were only the ones who bowed.

But tonight we rise, tonight we choose,

tonight we walk with nothing left to lose.

Ahh… ahh… ahh…

A city breathing forward. A people walking free.

A soft horizon rising.

A future calling me.