I wear the rags of madness to survive,
speak nonsense while the kingdom burns around.
What did I think would grow from shame well-fed?
The bastard learned our father's tongue: denial.
I watched him sign away his eyes for lies,
embrace the son who'd sell him for a title.
I could not shout my name across the moor —
the truth would choke on disbelief, grow idle.
My father: proud and strong and charmed by power.
Now slurring words and droopy eyes that stare.
Yet still he finds my hand amid the wreckage,
and grips it tight — all that's left of I'm proud of you.
The wilderness howls. My brother's acid burns.
Rest. Train. Breathe. It will not make me him.