The King Returns

There once was a house built of memories and ache,
Where love laid its bricks and pride made it quake.
A man carved the walls with sweat and with flame,
While a queen wore her crown, yet forgot his name.

He built her a nest with the roughest of hands,
Twigs turned to temples, dreams turned to plans.
But she flew from the rafters, chasing the sky,
Leaving the king to ask—was it love? Or a lie?

Now the halls are silent, but his spirit is loud,
He’s brushing off dust, standing fierce and unbowed.
The echoes still haunt him, the shadows still sting,
But damn it, he’s healing—he’s learning to sing.

He walks through the ruins with fire in his chest,
No longer a martyr, no longer a guest.
He claims back his throne, no need to compete—
The crown fits best when you rise to your feet.

He’s kissed other lips, felt sparks in the dark,
But it’s the mirror he faces that’s left the true mark.
He’s not just a lover, not just a man—
He’s the storm, the rebuild, the sovereign plan.

The queen may return, with eyes full of rain,
With whispers of sorrow, with remnants of pain.
But this king will not beg, won’t kneel, won’t crawl,
He’s tasted the fall—and he’s stood through it all.

So raise your damn banner, and hammer the bell,
This kingdom is yours now, forged out of hell.
You’re not who you were, you’re who you became—
A king with a backbone, and fire in his name.