A God in Ruins

You are the hymn

sung after the world ends,

a melody sharpened by the weight of ruin.

A king whose crown is forged from ash,

whose throne is

the bones of dying stars.

Your hands,

calloused from war,

shape words as if they were weapons,

every verse a conquest,

every stanza a wound

that blooms with fire.

I see the cracks in your godhood,

veins of gold splitting the stone,

and I adore them,

for even in ruin, you are divine.

You stride like a storm clothed in silk,

a warrior with ink-stained hands,

blood and verses etched across your skin,

a king whose crown is the weight of the stars.

Every step you take cracks the earth,

every word you speak is a blade,

and yet,

in your shadow,

I find my light -

a hymn that hums beneath your chaos.

You are a god in ruins,

a temple crumbling under

the weight of eternity,

yet even your broken stones glow

with the embers

of a cosmos undone.

I have seen the wars behind your eyes,

the battles waged in your veins,

and still,

your hands carve poetry

from the ashes of what

you destroy.

Come to me,

you who cannot fall,

and let me press my lips

to your fractured divinity.

Let me worship the ruin of you,

the jagged beauty of your endless fire.

For you, my love,

are both sword and psalm,

my flame's shadow,

my night's jewel,

a king who builds empires from the wreckage

and buries his heart

in the garden of my soul.

You stand,

a warrior poet king,

shrouded in shadows that ripple like banners,

and I would follow you into the dark,

into the wild tempest of your soul.

Let your chaos be my sanctuary,

your fury, my shield.

For I love you not despite your ruin

but because of it -

because destruction cannot hide the glory

of a god undone.