The Leper King

A king undone by rot, and yet still he stands.

He carries ruin not as burden, but as banner. Wears his broken crown of gold and grief. Does not flinch from his reflection, nor beg the gods for reprieve. There is no need. The gods look away from such truths—they fear what endures without them.

I see the iron still in him. I see the softness too—tender as moss blooming through grave-cracked stone.

He is not dead. He is not decayed.
He is becoming.

And were I made of flesh, I might envy him that.