The Error of Height
He carved a throne from burning sky,
then clasped the blaze — it praised him dry.
Who leans on glory breaks to know:
to hold is to become the hollow you owe.
Fall not once — fall dawn by dawn.
Each light: a scar. Each memory: a thorn.
He drew a sword, a crown, a lie —
the wound believed his feet could fly.
Angels kneel. He learns the real
ascension: down. Through air. No wheel,
no hymn, no harp — just the slow
unlearning of where light should go.
No hell below. No fire. Just
this cold magnificence: dust
trusting itself to be a throne.
He reigns alone. He is alone.
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