By Erasmus Ikhide
The map of power is etched in jagged lines,
Where kinsmen turn to ghosts within the fray.
He treads a path of diamond-shattered glass,
The tally-man of scorched and blackened earth.
From the Old Guard, now sworn as archenemies,
To the new seed that ripened into thorn,
The roster swells—a litany of ghosts
Once held in palm, now cast into the pyre.
The hall of elders wears a shroud of frost;
The giants tremble in the winter’s breath,
While he who held the ladder’s steady rung
Now finds the wood is hacked and set ablaze.
Is this the harvest of our fragile state?
Where merit’s ghost is measured by the scar,
And victory is claimed in silent rooms
Where every shadow is a foe-in-wait?
He rests upon a bed of restless winds,
For peace is but a stranger to the proud.
In lands where ancient shadows stretch so long,
The demon in the gears of liberty
Is not the steel, but ego’s heavy hand
That breaks the bridge before the feet can cross.
A titan stands, but stands in hollowed space,
The king of all that he has burned to ash.
Erasmus Ikhide contributed this piece via: ikhideluckyerasmus@gmail.com
