Apotheosis

The world, a mirage of ephemeral grace, Proffered him illusions in argent lace. With tongues bifurcate and hymns profane, It stitched betrayal into his vein. Exiled by seraphs of societal creed, He meandered through catacombs of need Anathema to their perfumed lore, Yet sovereign of an inner war. No oracles sang, no martyrs wept; In chiaroscuro silence, he crept. Yet within his chest, unshorn by fate, Resided a Logos inviolate. He trusted not the opiate applause, Nor genuflected to their spurious laws. His crucible was solitude’s pyre From which he rose, unburned by ire. Now, vestigial myths adorn his name, A cipher carved in mythopoeic flame. For he, betrayed by world’s façade, Forged apotheosis from its fraud.