I am not the morning star—
though I have walked alone
with light on my back
and silence in my mouth.
I never asked to rise,
only to know.
And knowing,
was cast out
with my hands still open.
I am not the winged sentinel—
though I have stood guard
over names I no longer say aloud,
drawn lines no one thanked me for.
I have held my ground
not for heaven,
but for the hope
that something still matters
enough to bleed for.
I carry no banner.
Only scars shaped like truths
I could not unsee.
Lucifer lit the match.
Michael held the line.
And I—
I became the smoke between them.
A blade
without allegiance,
cutting only
what must fall away.
May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 2:16 AM UTC
I am not the morning star—
though I have walked alone
with light on my back
and silence in my mouth.
I never asked to rise,
only to know.
And knowing,
was cast out
with my hands still open.
I am not the winged sentinel—
though I have stood guard
over names I no longer say aloud,
drawn lines no one thanked me for.
I have held my ground
not for heaven,
but for the hope
that something still matters
enough to bleed for.
I carry no banner.
Only scars shaped like truths
I could not unsee.
Lucifer lit the match.
Michael held the line.
And I—
I became the smoke between them.
A blade
without allegiance,
cutting only
what must fall away.
