A lamentation carved in ancestral ash and silken wrath
I was born beneath a roof of borrowed stars, where silence was stitched into my cradlecloth, and every withheld scream became a psalm
for the Sentinel of Bloodline me.
They speak in tongues dipped in honeyed venom, those kin who wear concern like ceremonial garlands, but their rituals reek of rot their blessings, barbed.
The Bearer of Burdens my progenitor
spent his prime erecting altars for their comfort, his sweat sanctified their feasts, his spine bent into bridges they now demand
be paved with gold and guilt.
Two daughters, they hiss, as if our existence were a ledger of loss, as if his labor must be transmuted
into inheritance for those who never wept for him.
And the Matriarch of Grace my origin flame
they veil her with shame, commenting on her visage, demanding she drape herself in submission
as if dignity were theirs to dictate.
Yet she speaks to them still, with a grace that defies gravity, while I her blood’s echo
burn in silence, my fury folded into polite nods
and counterfeit smiles.
I want to unsheath my voice, etch boundaries into their bones, teach them the sacred geometry of respect.
How dare they trespass
into the sanctum of our suffering?
But I swallow my wrath for the Matriarch’s peace, for the Bearer’s dignity, for the society that weighs silence
as virtue.
Still, silence is a slow crucifixion.
So I write.
I ritualize my rage into verse, my grief into glyphs, my defiance into legacy.
Let this poem be a blade wrapped in velvet, a dirge for the betrayed, a sanctuary for Sentinels
who guard their lineage like sacred flame.

They carved my name in silence, not gold,
In the ledger of “useless,” bitter and cold.  
One slip just one and the scroll rewrote,
Years of grace drowned in a single note.  

I bowed with reverence, not for their crown,
But for the myth that teachers don’t look down.  
Yet they measured worth by tuition paid,
Not by the soul or scars I’ve displayed.  

They smiled at rebels, gave them light,
While I, the quiet, was cloaked in night.  
No reward for being good, no balm,
Just the echo of blame, void of calm.  

So let me be bad, if good is unseen,
Let me wear thorns, not petals pristine.  
If virtue’s currency is never spent,
Then let me rise from their contempt.  

I am not their puppet, nor their pawn,
I am the storm that breaks their dawn.  
Time will etch me in truths they missed,
In the ink of fire, not a teacher’s list.  

Let them choke on the silence they gave,
While I build sanctuaries from every grave.  
I’ll prove my worth not for their gaze  
But for the stars that know my blaze.