The Lonely Wanderer’s War

I carry a candle like a fragile promise,

the flame flickers, too small to light the war,

but enough to burn the edges of my own shadow,

while the gods watch from their ancient thrones,

their eyes spiralling like a fingerprint,

unseen but pressing down, not just loneliness, but a disconnect

so deep it tastes like ash on my tongue.

My quiver holds no arrows,

only the weight of empty spaces,

the bookmarks of battles I never finished,

pages torn out by hands that never touched me,

voices echoing beneath my ribs,

a language I can’t learn,

a fight I never chose but must live through.

I am the hero who walks alone,

between the realms of flesh and myth,

searching for a path through the silence,

a way to stitch the rift

where love and rage bleed into the same wound,

and the gods, those distant, cold watchers,

smile like they already know the ending.