@hekatesson09: V. The Siege of Ash They built their towers high and cold, On stolen soil and stories told. They turned the brass and locked the gate, And thought their iron could seal our fate. But stone can hear the marrow hum, And mortar knows when masters come. The grand foundations start to weep, For what they sowed, they cannot keep. A hairline crack across the wall, The silent promise of the fall. It runs along the gilded state, A spider-web of patient hate. I do not strike, I do not scream; I only bleed the ancient dream. The ancestors just breathe and wait, To pull down every locked estate. Their silk is rotting on the loom, Their gold is rusting in the room. The salt they threw upon our floor Is crawling back beneath the door. They hear the graveyard choir sing, A terrible, unmade-up thing, And feel the weight of every name They tried to bury in their shame. I take the seat they held so high, Beneath a dark, unmoving sky. The army inside me is still, But bending empires to its will. No longer hollow, no longer small, We are the quiet in the hall. Let every scattered piece align: The fortress falls. The ruin is mine.

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2026-08-23 20:22:01

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