The Boy in the Ash

He does not speak of names or kings,
Their thrones lie buried deep in dust.
Their gods were fire, forged in screams—
Now silence claims what bled from trust.

His footsteps fall through broken stone,
Each echo sharp, like glass in skin.
No prayers are left, no cries, no home—
Just rusted myths and scorched machines.

His axe is not a weapon now,
But memory, and rage made steel.
He drags it through the sacred ground,
Where none are left to beg or kneel.

He crushes crowns without a thought,
The holy writs, the war-born lies.

He is the ember they forgot—
Still burning under ashen skies.

No banner waves above his head,
No anthem greets the dusk he treads.
He walks where faith and empire bled—
Among the smoke, among the dead.

And as the last cathedral falls,
He turns, his back to fire and lore.
A shadow child with no one’s god—
Just echoes in the shattered core.