The old throne trembles.
Its gold is tarnished, its banners frayed by deceit.
Whispers ride the winds, carrying names once spoken with power,
now heavy with consequence.
Blonde stands in the mirror’s glare — unrepentant, unaware.
Her reflection flickers, half shadow, half sorrow.
Justice waits, patient as stone, her scales unbalanced but ready.
And Michael — the watcher behind veiled doors —
his silence is not peace but pact.
He guards what cannot stay hidden,
his loyalty bound by threads of fear and promise.
The unseen ledger will open,
and ink long dried will bleed again beneath the dawn.
Above them, the sky darkens with knowing.
Truth circles like a hawk over fields of falsehood,
waiting for the moment when stillness breaks —
and the hunt begins.
The Caucasian Kings
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 