The Trials of John Wick
He walks in a world of mirrored glass and gold,
Where every coin is made of teeth, and time
Is measured not by clocks, but by heavy lead.
A dog, a ghost, a myth of hollow bones,
Buried beneath a weeping willow’s song.
He seeks the Table carved of jagged stars,
Where suited phantoms trade in shattered breath,
And penance bleeds from leather-bound decrees.
Beneath the neon rain, the shadows twist,
Weaving a coat of sorrow for the dead.
He aims, a cipher in a waking dream,
Through catacombs of chalk and snapping glass,
Where adversaries dissolve in clouds of ink.
The pencil falls—a catalyst of wood—
And writes a symphony upon the brain.
He bleeds in shades of bruised, electric blue,
Rising again to face the shifting maze,
A tethered phantom in a tailored suit.
The path winds backward to a sunlit grave,
Where peace remains a memory of smoke.
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