Final Jeopardy
67
A clock stutters, then obeys,
its hands pulled toward what hasn’t happened.
The future leaks backward
through cracks no one else can see.
His name is never spoken whole—
only passed down in fragments,
letters lent to the voiceless
so they may stand and be counted.
He gathers power the way dusk gathers light,
not stealing, only reclaiming
what once belonged to him
before memory learned to lie.
A king without a throne
rests his eyes on every path at once.
Battles end the moment he looks at them;
choices lose their teeth.
He does not fear death—
it is merely a pause
before his breath returns
to all that bears his mark.
