he ruled
his story once,
until the ground split
and the crown fell silent,
court scattering like startled birds.
he chased smoke,
clung to ruins,
believing he could rebuild.
but memory is a cruel architect.
the throne was never meant to last.
he learned the shape of his hands,
the weight of his breath,
a man without an audience.
it cut deeper than any blade.
freedom cost him
all he swore he’d die without.
he does not return to rule.
the king who survives exile
quieter now, wiser,
seared by his own arrogance,
his throne now a stone
by a stream.
he plants to watch things grow,
listens just to hear,
loses himself, purposely.
and when they ask what became
of the king,
those who know him say
he finally became one.