We are the storm that remembers the seed,
Not the tower that mocks from above.
We are the wound that chose to bleed
Rather than forget how to love.

We are not “them,”
the hollow-eyed kings,
the merchants of silence,
the eaters of wings.

We are the ones who woke mid-dream,
naked and burning with a vision unseen.
We spoke in symbols, we carved in flame,
a whisper that said:
We are not their shame.

We are the children of haunted light,
the rebels of God, the kiss in the fight.
They built a cage from fear and gold—
But we were the story too ancient to hold.

They cannot own what bleeds divine.
They cannot erase this love of mine.

We are not them.
We are the break.
The song.
The sword.
The soul they tried to take.