He sleeps where the roots remember flame, Where the cradle cracked but bore no name. His crown is quiet, his breath is thin, And the walls still hum where he once had kin. Hollow Heir, don’t rise too soon, The stars are sick, the sky’s no moon. Let the branches hold your head, And dream of things that should be dead. His fingers twitch like wind through leaves, He speaks in tones the dusk believes. No toys, no tears, no lullaby, Just purple streaks and a blood-red eye. Hollow Heir, don’t rise too soon, The stars are sick, the sky’s no moon. Let the branches hold your head, And dream of things that should be dead. The lightning kissed him once, then fled, The thunder bowed and left him red. And now he waits beneath the floor, For footsteps he will not ignore. Hollow Heir, don’t rise too soon, The stars are sick, the sky’s no moon. Let the branches hold your head, And dream of things that should be dead.
