Once a whisper, soft and rare,
A jewel’s gleam, a glinting stare—
My name turned mockery in time,
A ghost of beauty, bruised, a mime.
They took my skin, my youth, my song,
Bent my will to play along.
In Nero’s arms, a love deformed,
A twisted bride, a promise scorned.
I wore the mask, the silken chain,
And danced for him, through fire and pain,
A shadow dressed in borrowed grace,
To fill his void, to bear her trace.
But when the fires dimmed and died,
What use was left for Rome’s boy bride?
No throne, no voice, no form of me—
The only echo was mockery.
So now, by blade, I take my throne,
A crown of silence, mine alone—
For in my death, my one decree:
At last, in darkness, I am free.
2024 ©️
The Royal Octopus 