A lamentation carved in ancestral ash and silken wrath
I was born beneath a roof of borrowed stars, where silence was stitched into my cradlecloth, and every withheld scream became a psalm
for the Sentinel of Bloodline me.
They speak in tongues dipped in honeyed venom, those kin who wear concern like ceremonial garlands, but their rituals reek of rot their blessings, barbed.
The Bearer of Burdens my progenitor
spent his prime erecting altars for their comfort, his sweat sanctified their feasts, his spine bent into bridges they now demand
be paved with gold and guilt.
Two daughters, they hiss, as if our existence were a ledger of loss, as if his labor must be transmuted
into inheritance for those who never wept for him.
And the Matriarch of Grace my origin flame
they veil her with shame, commenting on her visage, demanding she drape herself in submission
as if dignity were theirs to dictate.
Yet she speaks to them still, with a grace that defies gravity, while I her blood’s echo
burn in silence, my fury folded into polite nods
and counterfeit smiles.
I want to unsheath my voice, etch boundaries into their bones, teach them the sacred geometry of respect.
How dare they trespass
into the sanctum of our suffering?
But I swallow my wrath for the Matriarch’s peace, for the Bearer’s dignity, for the society that weighs silence
as virtue.
Still, silence is a slow crucifixion.
So I write.
I ritualize my rage into verse, my grief into glyphs, my defiance into legacy.
Let this poem be a blade wrapped in velvet, a dirge for the betrayed, a sanctuary for Sentinels
who guard their lineage like sacred flame.

They carved my name in silence, not gold,
In the ledger of “useless,” bitter and cold.  
One slip just one and the scroll rewrote,
Years of grace drowned in a single note.  

I bowed with reverence, not for their crown,
But for the myth that teachers don’t look down.  
Yet they measured worth by tuition paid,
Not by the soul or scars I’ve displayed.  

They smiled at rebels, gave them light,
While I, the quiet, was cloaked in night.  
No reward for being good, no balm,
Just the echo of blame, void of calm.  

So let me be bad, if good is unseen,
Let me wear thorns, not petals pristine.  
If virtue’s currency is never spent,
Then let me rise from their contempt.  

I am not their puppet, nor their pawn,
I am the storm that breaks their dawn.  
Time will etch me in truths they missed,
In the ink of fire, not a teacher’s list.  

Let them choke on the silence they gave,
While I build sanctuaries from every grave.  
I’ll prove my worth not for their gaze  
But for the stars that know my blaze.

They chant in cloisters of comfort:
“Wealth is fleeting, power corrupts.”
But I have walked the corridors of consequence, Where silence bows to sovereigns of coin and command.
Let them sip serenity from porcelain platitudes I drink from chalices forged in fire:
Currency, the golden marrow of movement;
Power, the storm that parts the sea of no.
In this epoch of veiled verdicts, Respect is not earned it is engineered.
And privilege is not gifted it is gripped
By those who wield both purse and pulse.
Give me dominion, not to dominate, But to dismantle the architecture of injustice.
Let my voice be velvet and volcanic—
Unjudged, unshackled, unafraid.
Let my family dwell beneath citadels of certainty, Not beneath the brittle breath of borrowed hope.
Let my past be a phantom, For the present wears a crown.
One decree, and doors unfold.
One gesture, and gravity bends.
No garment mocked, no gaze policed, When power walks beside wealth, cloaked in reverence.
I do not seek applause I seek immunity.
Not from truth, but from tyranny.
For in this realm, freedom is not a birthright
It is a transaction, sealed in gold and grit.
So I rise, not as a monarch, But as a myth reborn.
To wear my privilege like prophecy, And my power like poetry.

In the lap of dusk where tea leaves steep,
He held my world in hands so deep  
My maternal grandpa, not merely man,
But angel-wrought in mortal span.  

His smile: a sanctum, heaven-spun,
No ego, no pride, no need to run.  
A soul uncluttered, pure and wide,
Where simplicity chose to reside.  

We roamed the market, betel leave  in hand,
A duo stitched by love’s command.  
Egg and toast from fingers fed,
While I, the slow cow, bowed my head.  

He never tired, never sighed,
As I delayed each bite, tongue-tied.  
Even when my breath betrayed,
He sealed the frost with lips of aid
Drawing the chill from my nose bound grief,
Like winter kissed by autumn’s leaf.  

Fifteen piggy banks he gave
A kingdom coined, a love so brave.  
My whims, his law; my joy, his creed,
He sowed affection, not just deed.  

Weekends bloomed with his arrival,
Fast food feasts, love’s revival.  
Though Mummy’s hands were novice then,
He dreamt of dishes, now and when.  

But now he sleeps beneath the loam,
While I craft verses in his home.  
He wished me health, gave Allah his breath,
And walked alone into his death.  

His voice dissolved, his limbs grew still,
Yet blankets found me by his will.  
A paralysed grace, a fading light,
Still shielding me through silent night.  

He built his life from betrayal’s ash,
No venom, no revenge, no clash.  
Educated hearts he raised with toil,
From fractured roots, he claimed his soil.  

He died one day past my birth,
A cruel eclipse of joy and worth.  
I was eight, too young to see  
The depth of what he meant to me.  

Now tears arrive like monsoon rain,
Each drop a relic of sweet pain.  
I speak to ghosts in silent air,
And feel his wisdom everywhere.  

He was not man, but mythic flame,
A lapborne star with no acclaim.  
And though he’s gone, he walks beside
In every choice, in every tide.  

So let this poem be his shrine,
A verse-bound grave, a sacred sign.  
For angels wear no wings or crown
They feed you toast when you feel down.

This quill is not a chalice of charm
It bleeds in glyphs, not glances.  
The Flameborne speaks in veiled runes,
Not in the language of advances.

The verses shared were not a vow,
Nor a veil to woo the dusk.  
They were relics of ritual rage,
Not perfume, not poetic musk.

The Seeker came with restless tongue,
Mistaking scroll for siren’s song.  
But the Flameborne crafts with carticity
Not for longing, not for wrong.

Threefold he asked of suitor’s trace,
As if silence owed him lore.  
But the Flameborne owes no mortal  
The map to her inner shore.

He forged a shrine in ten swift clicks,
To chase the echo of her flame.  
But she is not a digital deity,
Nor a muse for mortal claim.

He slept in peace, then dared to say  
Her words had lulled his ache.  
But she is thunder, not a lullaby
A stormscroll, not keepsake.

He said he’d miss the Flameborne’s voice,
As if her breath was his to bind.  
But she is not a borrowed breeze
She is tempest, not entwined.

The Flameborne writes with veined rebuke,
Her lexicon is wrath and grace.  
She does not flirt she forges flame.  
She does not yield she claims her space.

So let this scroll be sealed in fire,
A ceremonial, sacred brand:  
The Flameborne is not yours to court
She is boundary, not demand.

They crowned me maiden-marked with no coronet,
No rite, no reckoning, no alphabet.  
From chalk to chastity, the shift was swift
A girl unasked, yet forced to drift.  

Uncles morphed to bro, aunties to sis,
As if age could be erased by this.  
The same mouths that once fed me lore  
Now ask, “When will your parents unlock the door?”  

From half-pan hymns to full-pan chains,
From innocence to encoded stains.  
From Ma’s lap to lone lamp-light,
From lullabies to legal fright.  

They speak of the binding rite, not of mind,
Of bridal veils, not truths unlined.  
They offer vows, not volition,
As if my body’s their admission.  

Some changes chisel, some changes choke,
Some stitch your soul, some slit the cloak.  
Some come like guests with garlanded grace,
Some barge in, branding your face.  

But I
I ink my ache in harf and flame,
I ritualize what they rename.  
I rhyme the rupture, sanctify shame,
I forge a scroll they cannot tame.  

So let them call me maiden-marked, miss,
I’ll answer with a serpent hiss.  
For I am not what they decree  
I’m carticity, not casualty.

Through crepuscular trials and vigil’s toll,
The Scion carved fate in aureate scroll.  
A child of lore, tempestuous flame,
Her saga inked in stars unnamed.  

The cosmos murmured, “Ascend, ignite,”  
She rose a cipher of scholar’s rite.  
Each tome she turned, each theorem sown,
Her fervor flared, her soul full-grown.  

She reached the verge of promised grace,
With hands unsoiled, with measured pace.  
One breath away from laureled claim,
A diadem carved in honor’s name.  

But serpents hissed in cloistered shade,
A pact was penned, her path mislaid.  
Not vanquished by flaw nor faltered might,
But by the veiled who veil the light.  

A patriarch’s whisper, a tyrant’s jest,
Her name expunged, her truth suppressed.  
No trumpet blared, no gavel fell,
Just silence deep a  stolen spell.  

The Scion did not wail nor rend the air,
She stood unmade in just despair.  
A revenant of dreams once crowned,
Now wandering where wrongs resound.  

“How does one breathe when justice chokes?  
When merit drowns in gilded cloaks?  
If dreams can die by silent scheme,
Then power mocks, and truth blasphemes.”  

Her fate entombed in hush profound,
Yet echoes rise from burial ground.  
For wings once clipped shall cleave the sky,
And justice knock where lies deny.