There was a time I wore the crown,
In mirrored halls of polished brown.
Where doors would part with silent grace,
And all I met knew well my face.
My feet were swift, my steps were known,
The sky, it seemed, was mine alone.
A thousand voices shaped my days,
Yet none could pause the inward haze.
I shared my throne with joy and ease,
Where laughter danced upon the breeze.
And in those halls of sound and flame,
A younger gaze once called my name.
But purpose, like the tide, can turn,
And empires fade as spirits yearn.
I left the lights, the polished stone,
To find a path that’s mine alone.
No steeds to ride, no gates of gold,
Just waking earth and mornings cold.
The trails now whisper who I am,
And greet me like a wayward psalm.
The mailbox stands in quiet grace,
A little altar near my place.
It bears no mark, it makes no claim—
It waits to learn my newer name.
Yet here beside me walks a spark,
A voice that cuts through clouds and dark.
A mind alight with distant skies,
A dreamer born to climb the highs.
He draws the stars with steady hand,
And builds strange worlds from foil and sand.
At nine, he knows what men forget—
That hope’s a vow we never let.
When shadows press upon my brow,
He lifts me with a solemn vow:
“You’ve not yet sung your greatest song—
You’ve only rested, not been wrong.”
And she, the light that stilled my rage,
Has turned this page into a stage.
Her courage, firm as seasoned oak,
Still kindles fires that never broke.
At dusk, we eat with humble hands,
No clinking glass, no grand commands.
But peace now sits where pride once stood,
And rest arrives, as restors should.
No need for keys or velvet lanes,
No thirst for artificial gains.
For every step I take in grace,
Is echoed in his boundless pace.
And in this land of woods and sky,
Where paths grow kind as days go by,
A man reborn, without acclaim,
Still walks where Inwood learned his name.
Let silence write what fame forgot,
Let winds recall what men did not—
The leaves, the stream, they know the same:
The mailbox that forgot my name.