the exiled lion who Rem throne

We ran together once, but the climb broke me. The branch rose higher, and my strength failed. I dropped back into the grass like a wounded animal, shame dripping from my skin, forced to play among the ones who once called me a guide, a lamp, a pathfinder. I tried to rebuild formed a new pack, told myself I would carve stronger canoes for the sea. But my hands betrayed me again. The waves mocked me. I sank. So I fell into the circle of the younger, aging with children, laughing with a cracked soul, pretending the humiliation wasn’t carving marks into my spirit. I thought the nightmares had buried themselves, but life cruel, deliberate dragged me back a third time. Now the ones who once looked up to me stand tall as brothers, bound in a loyalty I no longer fit into. And the ones I once walked beside stand on heights I cannot reach, eyes on me like I am a boy playing king. I do not blame them. I carry my failure like a curse. Maybe I was never built for their altitude. Maybe destiny is punishing me through time. But even in this pit, I feel the crown burning in the distance. Too bright. Too far. And I too slow. Yet something in me still crawls toward it, bloody, stubborn, uninvited.