In a hall where echoes sigh through shattered glass,
A kingdom of porcelain, fragile and vast.
Limbs scattered like whispers of dreams left unsaid,
A graveyard of playthings, the long-forgot dead.
The albino god on the throne of doll heads,
Pale as regret where the moonlight treads.
His hollowed eyes, like marbled decay,
Watch over ruins time swept away.
A scepter of splinters, a crown cracked with rust,
His empire of silence now swallowed by dust.
No subjects remain but the shadows that creep,
Whispering prayers that even gods weep.
Yet still he lingers, bound to his seat,
A monarch of echoes where broken souls meet.
Ruling a kingdom where nothing is said—
The albino god on the throne of doll heads.
©oberon
O