Description
He does not wake — he detonates,
thrown upright from a trench of tangled sheets,
heartbeat clanging like a war drum
in a chest that never calls retreat.
Before his boots find floor,
the battle has already begun.
No trumpets sound, no orders bark —
just the mind,
unshackled,
and the turning of the gun.
This is not some soldier's tale
of right and wrong,
of field and foe —
this is chaos with a name,
and it sleeps where Sovereign goes.
He fights what cannot bleed.
He bleeds for things that never touched him.
The voice inside wears velvet gloves
and slaps like God’s own judgment.
He roars against the emptiness,
his teeth lit by the muzzle flash.
The sky rains down imagined fire,
and still he holds the lash.
Steel gauntlet clenched, chest bared to night —
he is beautiful in his fury,
the kind of man the world mistakes
for madness
when it’s merely jury.