My inner world, divided cleanly into halves,
beats in a haunting tether--
a shared odyssey of parallel pilgrimage.
One half, utterly mad, slips quietly with time; the other walks in liveliness--a Queen of Youth, adorned in an ostentatious gown,
a crown resting lightly upon her head, reigning in sovereign grace.
She, the better half, moves with an undercurrent of benevolence, rich in agape despite the turmoil within. Her power is given gently, deliberately--mindful of the fragile human heart. She pours without expectation, yet beneath her kindness lies a guarded will, honed by the threat of quiet degradation.
He, tired and unraveling, withers toward nothing-- a ruined city, battered by time, a flower fading into winter's slow decay. He whispers of a dolorous soul, where entropy holds dominion, its tears cascading like a waterfall to meet the earth below--
the scent of soil and sorrow rising together.
Have you ever known a mad king? One who welcomes the end with dignity, embracing it with a tranquil smile--yet bound to a counterpart who defies him?
For she remains-- the Queen of Youth--her voice a serenade of courage, her presence radiant with defiance. She endures where he dissolves. She gives where he releases. And still, they are one.
He, the Mad King, worn by the weight of his kingdom, rvered yet unraveling--
a relic of time, returning to ash. This rest he longs for is delicate, yet laced with a quiet hope. And so the question lingers--
Which of them will fall into eternal slumber first?
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 2:51 PM UTC
My inner world, divided cleanly into halves,
beats in a haunting tether--
a shared odyssey of parallel pilgrimage.
One half, utterly mad, slips quietly with time; the other walks in liveliness--a Queen of Youth, adorned in an ostentatious gown,
a crown resting lightly upon her head, reigning in sovereign grace.
She, the better half, moves with an undercurrent of benevolence, rich in agape despite the turmoil within. Her power is given gently, deliberately--mindful of the fragile human heart. She pours without expectation, yet beneath her kindness lies a guarded will, honed by the threat of quiet degradation.
He, tired and unraveling, withers toward nothing-- a ruined city, battered by time, a flower fading into winter's slow decay. He whispers of a dolorous soul, where entropy holds dominion, its tears cascading like a waterfall to meet the earth below--
the scent of soil and sorrow rising together.
Have you ever known a mad king? One who welcomes the end with dignity, embracing it with a tranquil smile--yet bound to a counterpart who defies him?
For she remains-- the Queen of Youth--her voice a serenade of courage, her presence radiant with defiance. She endures where he dissolves. She gives where he releases. And still, they are one.
He, the Mad King, worn by the weight of his kingdom, rvered yet unraveling--
a relic of time, returning to ash. This rest he longs for is delicate, yet laced with a quiet hope. And so the question lingers--
Which of them will fall into eternal slumber first?
