TheParagon

I was not named in the census of saints,
Nor indexed in the archives of the forgiven.
But I carried a flame ...
Quiet, unmeasured,
Lit from the breath of those who vanished
Without ceremony.

I walk with the grain of the forgotten,
My lantern swinging like a question
Through the corridors of collapse.
Each flicker a vow:
To remember without proof,
To love without ledger,
To belong without permission.

There are no maps for this kind of devotion.
Only the pulse of ancestral silence,
And the soft rebellion of staying lit
When the world insists on darkness.