Hello, Throne
me again, speaking toward the stone.
Your name is carved in every zone,
pressed into marrow, bone by bone.
I see your drones in every zone,
kneeling straight before your throne;
their spines aligned like polished stone,
their borrowed voices set to drone.
They guard the rock you call your own,
defend it down to skin and bone;
each doubt examined, pared, and thrown
back hard against the waiting stone.
I was assigned beneath your throne,
a label fixed, a faith pre-sewn;
I wore it once, but never grown…
it never settled in the bone.
Your drones grow louder round the throne.
Certainty calcifies to stone.
They bruise each other for a tone
that proves their closeness to the Throne.
I step back.
My spine is still my own.
The air is wider than your stone.
No incense,
no decree…
just breath against the known.
Forgive my unenthroned tone,
my never-sworn, my overthrown.
If faith must harden into stone,
I choose the pulse beneath the bone…
not the circle of the drones,
not the sharpened, marching tone,
not the fear that crowns itself alone
and calls it holy.
Hello…
not to the Throne
but to whatever listens
when no one owns it.
Still here.
Still bone.
-UpsilonA
Authors note:
This poem is an experiment with a tight cluster of rhymes that double as a single, interlocking conceit. The words should echo and reinforce one another sonically.
Each rhyme feels like a bone beneath the skin of meaning hidden, structural, still holding everything upright...⟢⚝⧉