Jan. 15 at 9:55 PM
$POET
The weasel knew this was a passing phase,
not doom, not truth, just market haze.
While others twitched at every sound,
it stayed below the trading ground.
No panic run, no noisy chase,
no selling fear at any price.
The games above? It let them play.
It waited out each fickle day.
Its edge was calm, its skill was sight—
not hope, not faith, but staying right.
Now soil softens, numbers lean.
The line turns up. The screen turns green.
The weasel lifts its head once more:
not luck, not noise—
just what it saw before.
