Formed from a twisted honeycomb.
It continues without an end, holding something quiet at its core.

It builds up, piece by piece.
Nothing is perfectly placed,
But somehow, it stays together.

It twists inward, folding into itself.
Not everything fits,
but something stays at the center.

Worn in suffering,
yet it remains.
What was placed in mockery
became something that endures.

Marked by what it has been through.
Still whole, still holding its form.