The Elephant Stomps

Image credit: (Pinterest/Tom Stearns)

The Elephant Stomps

A palace blooms from crooked pride,

walls whisper screams that never died,

floors slick with silence and indulgent rage,

echoes sharpen into a cage.

Mirrors shiver with borrowed light,

reflecting only what escapes the night,

each brick a lie, each beam a boast,

every shadow consumed by a ghost.

Twelve years folded, burned, and sold,

trust bartered cheap, morality cold.

The elephant stomps, invisible, grand,

while sparks of truth are scorched by hand.

A glance, a whisper, a careful sign,

twisted into treason by judgment blind.

The faintest glimmer, a rebel spark,

punished long before it leaves its mark.

Certainty strides on fragile bones,

rusted daggers rattling tones.

Arrogance blooms where silence bled,

the heart confined in a hollowed head.

Rot curls slow in orbit tight,

decay unmasked by failing light.

No altar holds the venom spun,

yet every chamber tastes its fun.

Secrets cradled in trembling palms,

kept from daylight, kept from alarms.

The rot you hid, the lies you spun,

unravel themselves when you’re undone.

Each choice a stone, each lie a rope,

built high above the scope of hope.

And I, unburned, unshackled, free,

watch as your ruin comes for thee.

May every scream you silenced roar,

may every step fall on a floor

you built to crush, to bind, to blind,

while truth bides patient, cold, and kind.

The palace tilts, its crown undone,

its architects swallowed by their own sun.

Every shadow you tried to weave,

returns to haunt, refuses reprieve.

Mellyna Diniar