The King of Nothing: A Crown of Phantom Sweat

A psalm of surrendering pride to the sculptor’s chisel.

There was a time I sprinted through life like Tarzan.
Branch to branch, breathless, blind to where the vines led.
Thirty? A myth. Tomorrow? A rumor.
I wore recklessness like a crown,
A king of nothing, betting my soul on dice I couldn’t hold.
“I AM THE MAN,” I roared,
A helium god, buoyant but hollow.
The flock thinned. Cards punched. Genes betrayed.
Left alone…