The Burden of Prophecy
They sang of me before my days were formed, and named me heir to deeds I would not claim. I carried their voices as a burden upon my soul, straining beneath the weight of expectation, pressing ever forward toward a summit that fled before me. The gods looked on, silent and unmoved, and men, though many, offered no aid. Yet still the fault lies with my faltering hand, my own weakness, my own hesitation, my own fear, which turned hope to shadow and promise to dust. Now I wander among the ruins of my striving, haunted by the glory that was never mine. So here I stand, not broken, yet unmade: Alive, aware, and never what I sought. Image Generated by AI.
