I buried my name beneath a chapel of frost. No crown. No king. Only the echo of what I could have been. There was once a silence that ruled like a god so vast, so cruel, it dressed in applause. I wore a robe stitched from regrets, and danced with ghosts who never left. We wear the Hollow Crown! Not gold, but grief in gown. No throne, no sound, just bone and bound we wear the Hollow Crown. Then came fire from the north it screamed. Axes of memory. Shields of dream. My name roared back through blood and hail a forgotten hymn with teeth and scale. I remembered a note that wept like snow a single string that used to glow. And in that sound, I found the end: Not death but silence dressed as friend. A whisper danced on marbled floor then shattered as the silence tore. The moonlight bled, the chapel shook my voice returned in every look. I screamed in Bach’s forgotten scale, my blood became the cello’s wail. A choir broke like glass on stone and still I wore the Hollow Throne. We wear the Hollow Crown! With laughter carved from frown. Let shadows bow, let time disown we rise and fall and still… we drown. ...
