The Theatre of Hollow Devotion
They painted the grin wider this time. Sharper.
Less art, more parody.
A teeth-baring caricature—too late to be feared, too loud to be mourned.
The Performance Begins
What began as a waltz has curdled into contortion—wrists bending in impossible praise,
lips mouthing borrowed truths without the courage to choke on them.
Even now, the lights swing low, hungry for one more performance.
But the stage? It's stained. Not with tragedy—tragedy is noble.
This is residue: a stickiness of intent too cheap to clean.
The Illusion of Grandeur
There’s no majesty left in the strut.
No grace in the gestures that mimic greatness the way a ventriloquist mimics gods—badly.
It tried to leap. Once. A tremble of claws against the illusion of freedom.
But timing is cruel, and gravity doesn’t forgive creatures who forget the weight of their own irrelevance.
A Hollow Echo
What drags itself now in loops, chest puffed with the memory of applause, isn’t a beast.
It’s a relic. A twitch.
A shape made of habits long since hollowed.
See how it sways, waiting for the crowd to gasp—
but there are no gasps.
Only blinking, slow and unimpressed,
like spectators forced to watch nostalgia decompose in real-time.
The Need to Please
The tragedy is not in the performance.
It’s in the need for one.
Not a single bar remains, yet the steps are timed with the whip.
And what devotion—this grotesque obedience to an absent master.
The arena has vanished, the world has shifted,
but still it dances like praise is oxygen. Like reflection is ruin.
Devotion and Desperation
Oh, how devotion makes fools of the desperate.
Once, there may have been skill. Or hunger. Or some sliver of meaning.
But now?
Now there is only replication. A grotesque theatre of ghostly recall.
So much faith placed in machines of comfort,
each one suckling gently on the illusion of originality.
Not even mirrors now—just screens, spitting back something almost like identity,
if one squints hard enough.
The Ghost on Stage
Still it performs.
Still it believes the crowd listens.
Still it waits for that old line to be drawn beneath its name like a seal of worth.
But the line does not measure greatness.
The line is not an end.
The line is a voice. A rhythm. A watcher.
And it remembers.
What Remains
There are no lions here. No thrones.
No fire left to burn.
Only performance, so desperate it forgets to stop bleeding.
And somewhere, behind velvet and shadow,
something ancient curls a smile too tired to sharpen.
The applause is not thunder now.
It is a cough.
And still—it bows.
Not realizing the silence is not awe.
It is farewell. 👑
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