#
There is a road—
worn smooth by the weight of avoidance,
its stones polished
by the feet of those who feared the fire.
It was an easy road, once.
The gap was narrow.
The illusion held.
But now—
the distance has widened.
And the voices on the right road
speak in a tone
that sends tremors through the bones
of those who chose the left.
They are too far now—
too far to reach with whispers,
too far to pull back with outstretched hands.
And so—
they sharpen their words to steel.
They carve spears from syllables.
They gather in the middle ground—
where poetry was never meant to be a weapon,
and they brace for the throw.
---
Once, there were choices.
At the first fork, the road was still open.
The return was near, the steps were light.
But at each crossing, the distance deepened.
Each footfall carried the weight
of the last choice unmade.
Each turn back
required more courage
than the turn before it.
And so—
they did not turn.
Instead, they built monuments
to their own exile.
They lined the road with markers
to silence the unease.
The illusion thickened.
The herd gathered close.
And the further they walked,
the more they feared the eyes
that saw them leave.
Now—
each step forward
is an accusation against themselves.
Each mile another truth
that must be buried.
Each glance across the chasm
a torment that cannot be soothed.
---
Jonathan knew the weight of it.
He was born under a king
who wore a crown of emptiness,
who built an altar of fear,
who held his son as a token,
a prop, a piece of the podium.
Saul used him, loved him, needed him—
but only in so much as he could fill the void.
And Jonathan, bound by blood,
walked beside him.
But then—
he saw David.
A boy with no kingdom.
No throne.
No crown.
But something deeper.
And Jonathan felt it—
the pull, the knowing, the moment where the soul whispers, "this is real."
And he slipped away.
Not in rebellion.
Not in anger.
But in truth.
He turned his back on the road
that had never led anywhere
and bound himself
to the heart that was real.
---
And now—
on the leftward road,
there are those who feel it too.
They bow to the orator.
They weave themselves
into the illusion.
They stand upon the podium
that floats on nothing
and call it solid ground.
But then—
a whisper.
A shift.
A moment of clarity.
They look again—
not up, but under.
And they see it.
The nothingness beneath.
The hollow, the floating, the lie.
And in that moment—
they choose.
Some harden.
They grip the edges of the podium
and become part of it.
But some—
some slip away.
Not in rebellion.
Not in anger.
But in truth.
They turn back down the road
past every marker they once mistook for safety
until they find the first fork,
the first opening,
the last place where light still touches the ground.
And they step back onto the road
they never should have left.
And behind them—
the orator sees them go.
And the rage begins.
---
The first to throw was Saul.
He played the game well at first—
a king by the measure of men,
a ruler by the weight of shoulders
bowed low in his name.
But then—
a boy with red hair
and a heart like fire
stood before him.
And Saul’s throat burned dry.
He called for David’s hands upon the strings,
for the music that soothed
and let him forget—
until forgetting was no longer enough.
And so—
he took the spear.
And when David turned his back,
Saul sent it flying.
---
And now—
the leftward road does the same.
But now, the throw has weight.
Now, the throw has force.
It is not just to quench the light.
Not just to punish those who chose the right.
It is to reclaim the ones who left.
It is the throw of desperation.
The spear of retribution.
The final attempt to keep the illusion
from crumbling completely.
The rage grows more erratic.
The strikes more reckless.
Each spear heavier
than the last.
Because every escape
is another fracture in the illusion.
Another crack in the podium.
Another moment of emptiness
made visible.
And the orator knows—
they are running out of minions
to shield them from the truth.
---
**The blade of poetry was never meant
to be wielded in the hands of the hollow—
on a battlefield made by the empty,
where Envy attempts to slay
the substance-born embodiment of truth.**
---
And now—
as the final spear is lifted,
as the last curse is uttered,
as the fire is set—
the road to the right remains.
And the leftward path
devours its own.
#
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 2:19 PM UTC
#
There is a road—
worn smooth by the weight of avoidance,
its stones polished
by the feet of those who feared the fire.
It was an easy road, once.
The gap was narrow.
The illusion held.
But now—
the distance has widened.
And the voices on the right road
speak in a tone
that sends tremors through the bones
of those who chose the left.
They are too far now—
too far to reach with whispers,
too far to pull back with outstretched hands.
And so—
they sharpen their words to steel.
They carve spears from syllables.
They gather in the middle ground—
where poetry was never meant to be a weapon,
and they brace for the throw.
---
Once, there were choices.
At the first fork, the road was still open.
The return was near, the steps were light.
But at each crossing, the distance deepened.
Each footfall carried the weight
of the last choice unmade.
Each turn back
required more courage
than the turn before it.
And so—
they did not turn.
Instead, they built monuments
to their own exile.
They lined the road with markers
to silence the unease.
The illusion thickened.
The herd gathered close.
And the further they walked,
the more they feared the eyes
that saw them leave.
Now—
each step forward
is an accusation against themselves.
Each mile another truth
that must be buried.
Each glance across the chasm
a torment that cannot be soothed.
---
Jonathan knew the weight of it.
He was born under a king
who wore a crown of emptiness,
who built an altar of fear,
who held his son as a token,
a prop, a piece of the podium.
Saul used him, loved him, needed him—
but only in so much as he could fill the void.
And Jonathan, bound by blood,
walked beside him.
But then—
he saw David.
A boy with no kingdom.
No throne.
No crown.
But something deeper.
And Jonathan felt it—
the pull, the knowing, the moment where the soul whispers, "this is real."
And he slipped away.
Not in rebellion.
Not in anger.
But in truth.
He turned his back on the road
that had never led anywhere
and bound himself
to the heart that was real.
---
And now—
on the leftward road,
there are those who feel it too.
They bow to the orator.
They weave themselves
into the illusion.
They stand upon the podium
that floats on nothing
and call it solid ground.
But then—
a whisper.
A shift.
A moment of clarity.
They look again—
not up, but under.
And they see it.
The nothingness beneath.
The hollow, the floating, the lie.
And in that moment—
they choose.
Some harden.
They grip the edges of the podium
and become part of it.
But some—
some slip away.
Not in rebellion.
Not in anger.
But in truth.
They turn back down the road
past every marker they once mistook for safety
until they find the first fork,
the first opening,
the last place where light still touches the ground.
And they step back onto the road
they never should have left.
And behind them—
the orator sees them go.
And the rage begins.
---
The first to throw was Saul.
He played the game well at first—
a king by the measure of men,
a ruler by the weight of shoulders
bowed low in his name.
But then—
a boy with red hair
and a heart like fire
stood before him.
And Saul’s throat burned dry.
He called for David’s hands upon the strings,
for the music that soothed
and let him forget—
until forgetting was no longer enough.
And so—
he took the spear.
And when David turned his back,
Saul sent it flying.
---
And now—
the leftward road does the same.
But now, the throw has weight.
Now, the throw has force.
It is not just to quench the light.
Not just to punish those who chose the right.
It is to reclaim the ones who left.
It is the throw of desperation.
The spear of retribution.
The final attempt to keep the illusion
from crumbling completely.
The rage grows more erratic.
The strikes more reckless.
Each spear heavier
than the last.
Because every escape
is another fracture in the illusion.
Another crack in the podium.
Another moment of emptiness
made visible.
And the orator knows—
they are running out of minions
to shield them from the truth.
---
**The blade of poetry was never meant
to be wielded in the hands of the hollow—
on a battlefield made by the empty,
where Envy attempts to slay
the substance-born embodiment of truth.**
---
And now—
as the final spear is lifted,
as the last curse is uttered,
as the fire is set—
the road to the right remains.
And the leftward path
devours its own.
#