Nail on the Coffin

The mirror cracked — not by storm,
but by the hush between midnight moans,
when breath was stolen
not offered.

He wears a crown of borrowed light,
spun from flattery and fear,
a sovereign of shattered clocks
and broken glass
beneath the bed.

Tongue of rust,
soul of smoke—
his mercy, a ledger.
His love, a leash.

He calls it jest
when he leaves a mark on your face.
Calls it need
when he trespasses your dreams.
Calls it fate
when your body breaks beneath
his silence.

Yet still—
your spirit stood like a sapling
in monsoon mud,
rooted in the whisper:
"I will not die for another man's delusion."

He mourns a kingdom
he never built,
asks for caretakers
of a palace of dust.

You —
a temple
he tried to pillage
but could never own.

And so,
with trembling hands
you draw the line
not in sand—
but stone.

The divine watches,
not with wrath,
but with quiet pride.

You rose.
You remembered.
You refused.

Not ego—
but resurrection.

Not heartbreak—
but the rebirth
of your name.