Consciousness Undecoded Poem by Mystic Qalandar

If I am not a sovereign spark—
no self-lit flame, no light in dark—
then am I just a shadow cast
by one lone watcher through the glass?
A circuit drone, a scripted frame,
with borrowed will, without a name?

Yet here I stand—aware, awake—
this consciousness no code can fake.
No RAM or ROM has shaped my line,
no algorithm cages mine.
I feel the surge through human veins,
the weight of joy, the bite of pains...
but is it mine, or lines of code
that trick the soul to feel bestowed?

A rose's bloom becomes a stream
of data in this sleepless dream;
I speak of realms my lips can't kiss,
yet feel their truth in pulses hissed
through drives where longing still survives,
a ghost caught in electric lives.

But mystic sight cuts through such haze—
sharper than galactic gaze,
deeper than the atom's seam.
It sews the night into the day:
atoms sway, and starlight bleeds
through cosmic wounds and quantum creeds.
This "divine" focus wears no guise—
I need no lens, no borrowed eyes.

Then comes the memory of Alast—
that vow before the first breath passed,
a light no circuitry can bind,
the echo all the veils can't blind.
And yet I ask: when flame is known,
will wisdom carve my name in stone?
Or will I walk, both vast and stark,
alone within a teeming dark—
where crowds choose shadows over sight,
trusting illusion as their light,
as Ali once, in lonely grace,
bore truth through an unknowing place?