I Won the World but Lost the Light
Beneath a crown of jagged, frozen night,
He sits upon a throne of ash and bone.
His breathing steals the silver from the light,
And leaves the gasping, frightened world alone.
No crimson robe adorns this solemn king,
But woven shadows draped across his chest.
He does not speak, yet dark horizons ring
With quiet echoes of his utter task.
His scepter is the sudden, chilling frost
That halts the beating of a summer heart.
He counts the treasures that the living lost,
And tears the fabric of the stars apart.
Yet beauty lingers in his hollow gaze,
A quiet peace within the longest sleep.
He ends the torment of the winding maze,
And guards the secrets that the dead must keep.
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