58.The Shadow Beneath the Crown

I wear the light, don't I?

I let it curl around my skin like silk,

a robe of purity that gleams too bright

for them to see the shadow underneath.

They call my name, pray to the sky,

but they don't know—don't see

the fire that flickers just behind the flame.

I speak the words they crave to hear,

I promise them the gates of gold,

but what waits beyond is nothing

they can touch, nothing they can know.

I shape their faith like clay,

bend their knees with a whispered word,

and they kneel before the mask

that hides the horns they fear.

Do you see me now? No.

For the light blinds, doesn't it?

It hides the truth in plain sight,

and the truth is nothing more

than the lies I've woven into their prayers,

the sin I've carved into their hearts

with hands they think are clean.

I am the god they wanted,

the god they begged for in the dark,

when the weight of their sins

was too heavy for them to bear.

I took their guilt, dressed it in white,

and now they wear it like a crown,

thinking it was always theirs to wear.

They sing my name, don't they?

But it's not the name they think it is.

I am the light that burns too cold,

the fire that never warms,

but they still turn to me, still offer

their breath, their blood,

thinking I'll save them from the darkness

that I created with my hands.

Do you see the crown?

It shines, doesn't it?

But the weight of it is mine to bear,

and it digs deeper with every bow

they make in my name.

I am the king of their salvation,

but the kingdom I rule

is not what they think it is.

I guide them through the gates,

but those gates don't lead to heaven—

they lead to the fire beneath,

to the shadows that hold their hearts

longer than any prayer could ever reach.

They think they're saved,

but I've already claimed them.

I wear the light, but I am the flame

that burns too close to the skin,

the whisper that never leaves their ears,

the doubt that curls beneath their breath.

They worship what they cannot see,

and that is the trick, isn't it?

For I am always there, beneath their hopes,

beneath their hymns,

bending their faith into something

they can never truly hold.

They think I'll save them.

They think the light is pure,

but it's twisted, isn't it?

Bent into the shape of something holy,

while the fire burns deeper,

and they never feel the heat

until it's too late to turn away.

I walk among them, don't I?

With hands that bless,

with lips that speak of mercy,

but the mercy is mine, not theirs.

I lead them to the water,

but it isn't for baptism,

it's for drowning,

for pulling them deeper

into the river that runs with fire,

not with grace.

Do they see the horns? No.

For the light blinds, doesn't it?

It shines too bright for them to see

the shadow that follows,

the darkness that clings

to every step I take.

I am the god they wanted,

the god they chose,

and I wear the crown they gave me,

but the crown was never pure.

It was forged in the fires

that I built long before they prayed.

And now, they are mine.

I let them sing, let them believe

that the light will save them,

but the light was always mine to twist,

always mine to dim

until it no longer shines.

The wings they see are not wings,

but shadows cast too high

for them to know the difference.

They kneel, they weep,

and I watch,

knowing they'll never understand

what waits for them behind the veil.

I wear the light, don't I?

And the light wears me,

but underneath, I am the fire,

the shadow, the silence that follows,

the doubt that grows in the space

between their prayers and their fall.

They call me God,

but the devil walks in their faith,

and they never even know.