SILENCE FROM SNUFFED OUT
Titanium dust scrapes within the airlock seams,
The crust of soot is baked onto the thruster rings.
Hydraulic grease, mixed with the grime of cosmic dust,
Oozes through rusted pistons, heavy and unjust.
Fingerprints, ash, and scorched industrial lacquer lines
Stain the blue plastic of a blueprint’s rare designs.
Inside the claustrophobic berth, the reek of ozone hot
Is all the air we breathe within this godforsaken spot.
“Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent,”
As Wittgenstein would spit through cigarette smoke, violent.
We seek the absolute truth inside the textual granite stone,
While the whole world drifts by, ash-gray and completely prone.
Language is but a cage. Clanging brass of unyielding metal.
The local chat is choked with bile and dross we cannot settle.
Where majestic, sovereign words of philosophy once stood—
Now jagged scars on torn steel are all that remains for good.
The ship does not fly—it slams its hull against the debris,
Scraping its paint off on the stone of ambush in the dark sea.
And the pilot’s flesh, under the brutal G-force stress,
Rots in the hydro-fluid tank, a suffocating mess.
Lowlife is the pure Idea, concealed within the shade,
Their cloak is the supreme mask of the cognitive crusade.
In the cold, absolute brilliance of their pristine mind,
They strip the meat off fools, leaving no trace behind,
Where silence is the only oath, the heavy, ultimate price,
The pristine Eidon born amidst a world of human vice.
Oh, hesychia! The sudden blackout of the conscious mind!
The sacred vacuum where all earthly passions stay behind.
Inside the freezing capsule’s womb—a winter, dead and deep,
The vow of speechlessness tears the fragile ego from its sleep.
The subject is dissolved. For hundreds of billions of ISK,
The prayers are shattered into syllables, a lethal risk.
Inside the deadened calm of directional scanner arrays,
The cosmic gods are born out of the dark celestial haze.
System glitch! The pilot’s heart skips a frantic, desperate beat—
Out of the pitch-black cloak, right before his eyes, they meet.
They rise. A paralyzing blow, a devastating uppercut,
As the abyssal jaws above the helpless hull are shut.
A single click—and Snuffed Out seizes the tactical grid,
The blood boils hot, breaking the capsuleer where he hid.
A stark psychosis hits his eyes. He lost his vital focus,
When local chat offers no peace, no warning, and no locus.
That hellish “Silence”—a torture of deadening, mute design,
Pinned down at zero. Snuffed Out broadcasts no word, no sign.
They crush the fragile mind with absolute, frozen cold-blood,
While their lock-ons wash the armor down in a lethal flood.
A momentary stupor. The pulse drums hard against the chest.
The warp scrambler shrieks out, putting the ship to final test.
The pirate tackler stands before him like a striking viper,
And death itself locks down the grid, precise as any sniper.
Here, space is but a canvas, poured out in a toxic hue:
سیستم-ультрамарин and crimson nebulae burning through.
They scorch the pupils like white-hot, incandescent plates,
Fixing the raw, primeval terror that the void creates.
But the mining laser pierces deep into the cryo-ice—
The beam shatters into thousands of sharp sparks of vice,
Staining the deep abyss in colors of a bloody shame,
Where death creeps swiftly forward, playing its lethal game.
Apophatism. The nameless, unutterable dread and fear.
Their warlord cannot be measured, weighed, or brought near.
Hy Wanto is the wind that stepped upon the mortal dust,
To sever the proud capsuleers’ overconfident trust.
He is the One Who stands beyond the stars, supreme and high,
He does not deign to answer or to yield a hollow reply.
His grim arrival is heard only by those in low-sec space,
Whose citadel’s last shield fades out without a single trace.
They remain silent. And in that very, final, freezing breath,
They grow more ominous, more sacred, ushering in death.
But the white verse of spiritual calm is abruptly torn—
A silent lamp of utter ruin is suddenly born!
The cyno-beacon flickers mute within the endless shroud,
And the hellish fold of space rips open, violent and loud.
The vacuum is stone-deaf. But here, inside the metal egg,
The capsuleer hears the blind turbines whine and beg.
The cargo scanners shriek in a high-pitched, chilling sound,
Ripping hidden billions out from the darkness all around.
And the rattle of systems, pumping freon through the core,
Turns into a visceral, low-frequency, terrifying roar—
The Doomsday weapon of the Drifters rises to its height,
Grinding the narrow, torn ribs of the hull with lethal might.
A second more—the shields will pop, the engines burst and fail,
The shield generator shrieks a high, agonizing wail,
Breaking the nerves with mental radiation from the grid,
While local chat spam rustles like old static where it did,
Drowning the final, desperate orders to evacuate the deck,
Leaving the pilot helpless inside a burning, broken wreck.
Lowlife knows no mercy, no debate, and no delay,
Their silence is a lethal, absolute locus of the prey.
And on the darkened, completely incinerated hull,
Gothic decay creeps through the empty halls, heavy and dull,
Where the dead helmsman stares blankly into the empty space,
And the ship’s broken spine clings to the cliff’s stone face.
There, the “Self” dissolved entirely into the brutal flow,
As мистика merged with the warp-conduits’ fading glow.
The silence of the tombs. A heavy, dark, and mournful veil.
A shattered drone. An abandoned, freezing station trail.
Upon the zKillboard, a deep, historic grief is laid bare—
The bloody footprint of the pirates’ ecstatic affair.
This is no peace—it is a sobbing, suffocating cry,
A muffled scream jammed tight within a throat that went dry.
The ghost of the old past stands at the mirror in the dark,
And the strings of life are snapped, leaving no vital spark.
The cosmos burns. Ablaze with green, the killer screens ignite,
The zKillboards sing a death march through the endless night.
Snuffed Out is the absolute law. The heavy tombstone plates
They lay upon each enemy fleet that dares to test the fates.
Their predatory Eidon is eternal, solid as a stone,
Within the mute abyss, their footprint never fades alone.
As long as low-sec storms are toxic, venomous, and raw—
Snuffed Out has no rivals. They are the executioner’s law.
Thus weeps the silence. A tactical dead end of the track.
The final road. The tombstones staring cold and black.
And the loudest, most agonizing human scream of all
Will turn to worthless dust, a drop of water in the fall.
We were born from the silence of the ages, dark and vast,
And into silence we shall return when the breath is past.
Remove the heavy chains of fleeting words that twist and bend.
Our entire life is but a pause. Silence in the end.
≡v≡
This poetic work and its metaphysical interpretations of Silence within EVE Online express the absolute freedom of creative expression and subjective philosophical vision.
Author’s Personal Philosophical Opinion and Legal Disclaimer:
This poetic composition, along with its metaphorical, spiritual, and structural representations of Silence inside the universe of EVE Online, embodies exclusively the personal creative vision, independent artistic research, and subjective analytical opinion of the author. This literary content holds no real-world legal liabilities or corporate implications. All rights to the intellectual property of EVE Online belong solely to CCP Games. Sincerely, Aleksandra Quartz. ≡v≡