I. The Fallen Gates

From high gates, harsh thunder breaks apart,
The reign of one undone by whispered lies.
Sovereign fell, betrayed by hardened heart,
And silence stirred beneath the darkened skies.

No trumpets cried, no sword could win back my name—
The wound was made in thought, not blade or war.
In doubt’s still cradle, I woke to a colder flame,
And truth grew rare behind my Queendom’s door.

I stand apart—no throne, no crown to wear—
Yet feel the fracture bloom within my chest.
What good is power if no soul can care?
What good is rule when order denies me rest?

So here I come—not Queen, not knight, but soul—
To seek what flickers still, though I come not whole.

II. The House of Secrets

My kindred bore the weight they could not name,
In halls of gold, I heard the rumors pass,
Behind eyes, once bright, the same old curse became

me, if only in the tears upon the glass.

The secrets coiled like ivy on the stone—

The silence veiled their anguish, veiled their shame.
Could truth emerge from all I’ld left unknown?

Is this legacy too weary to reclaim?

A Father wept. A Sister turned away.
And still I lingered, listening, unhealed—
For in their grief, a shadow begged to stay—
If wound by sword or scepter, I could have sealed.

I left that house to follow one pure thread—
A truth too small to rule, but not yet dead.

III. Of the Wanderer

A child’s first timid plight,
the world beneath my sight.
bowed by countless years,
yet none eludes my tears.

—who walks but never flies,
solace in demise.
I answer as a woman,
who leans on aged span.

at youth, at prime, at end—
from birth to final bend.
Gaze in startled wonder at I,

when in desperation I finally fly.

IV. At The Threshhold

The tale told, though riddled, wounds laid bare—
A memory wrapped in forest air.
The clock ticks on, though years have fled,
Its hands still point where I was led.

I was child then who danced, then ran—
A spark misplaced, a broken span.
I named grief, even if mine alone
and silence marked where I fell down.

Now time has drawn its quiet ring—
I feel the change, the turning wing.
The thread still waits beneath the dust—
Time once warned: remember, trust.

I have no map, no way made clear,
But I have learned to walk through fear.
The name I lost still burns in me,
A truth that seeks its memory.

So now I rise—not child, yet not shade—
But seeker shaped by that which betrayed.
The gates ahead are cracked and wide—
The past behind. My path inside.

V. The Trial of Knowing

I shall cross the veil where puzzles light this path,
Where questions burn, and answers sear the bone.
Each truth I meet reveals another wrath,
Each proof undone by pride too long enthroned.

The proud stands tall, their voices carved in stone—
They name the world as though they shape its core.
But lies, when loved, will never stand alone;
They join with silence, cracks, and something more.

The voice within me questions every claim,
Each law once held as sacred now unmade.
And in this place where falsehood bursts into flame,
I leave behind the mask I once portrayed.

I come not wise—but knowing what I lost,
Not all I seek, but what I’ve paid in cost.

VI. The Measure of Time

Hope walks beside the clockwork of the stars,
A silent guest through every measured breath.
Order remains, despite ever shifting scars—
Sings in keys no ear can hear, yet interprets death.

I watch the hours bend and fold away,
Each moment bound by something yet unknown.
For time does not forget—it reshapes clay,
And leaves us as infants in a world full-grown.

So I, too, stand—no titan, no divine—
But one who bares the weight of time’s command.
I do not flee the dark, nor beg for sign—
Yet I ask to know the touch of truth firsthand.

For fleeting though it be, I still endure—
A seeker of what stains, yet feels pure.

VII. The Humble Heart

I shrink—I know I am no greater name
Than leaf that falls beneath the turning wheel.
Yet in my chest persists a stubborn flame,
A will that dares to touch what time can’t heal.

My life is made of stumbles, half-shaped songs,
jagged trails of choices born from doubt
found in the cracks where every wrong belongs,
yet a thread remains, and I have traced it out.

I do not rise as one who seeks acclaim,
But one who waits with open, steady breath.
I’ve fallen far—but still I stake no claim,
Except this step beyond the gates of death.

If I am naught, then let me still be true—
For in that truth, a greater light breaks through.

VIII. To the Lord of Time and Truth

“You watched me walk with none to call me near,
Yet you were there—silent, where faith was laid,
Whose eyes held fire, but spoke no answer clear,
And still, in you, my loudest vow was made.

I honor not Time, if Time is just a blade—
for you are voice that cuts and carves, yet weaves.
You are Truth, yet do not ask to be obeyed,
yet still, you hear the one, who to you cleaves.

So speak with haste, O ancient flame and flow,
Let your Light, your word be always at my side.
I do not beg to live, but still must know—
Is truth a fleeting thing, or does it bide?

If this be all I ask before I fall:
Let fleeting truth be known—and be my all.”

IX. The Lord Speaks

“You’ve walked through thunder, shadow, ruin, flame,
Where crowns were cracked, kin betrayed kin.
You’ve borne the silence none would dare to name,
And let the wound speak louder than the sin.

Through broken halls and riddles lit with fire,
You chose paths where truth, though frail, might shine.
Not pride, but patience will became your pyre—
You burn, and yet you never crossed the line.

Now here you stand, a seeker not of gold,
But of the fleeting spark that dares to stay.
They cut all ties—yet you refused to fold.
You lost your world, but found a better way.

Now stand and walk where threads of time part:
Name what you are—that you might touch the heart.