The Architect’s Shadow
He drew a map on smoke,
called it a kingdom,
and told the fire to govern.
In rooms without windows
he whispered equations of mercy
and subtracted the bodies.
The sun rose obediently
over deserts he had renamed,
its light filtered through contracts
and unmarked crates.
When the people prayed for rain,
he sold them mirrors.
When they begged for truth,
he gave them flags, folded small enough
to fit inside a wallet.
He lived long, as such men do,
on the marrow of secrecy,
his heart a mechanical sermon
that preached endurance, not grace.
And when at last
the breath unspooled from that iron lung of will,
the air seemed to clear—
not in celebration,
but in relief,
as if the world had unclenched a fist
it forgot it was holding.
- Geoffrey Phineas Talbot
















