The Handover.

I built a kingdom of tenderness,
stone by stone with my pulse,
my love a fortress,
my prayers a shield you never saw.

You mistook patience for weakness,
devotion for chains,
spat on the altar,
shat on the gift,
and crowned yourself a god.

Love is not a toy.
It is thunder in the quiet,
a blade beneath the hand.
Today, I draw it.

I hand you to the wind,
to the fire,
to the silence between heartbeats
where God Himself whispers.
My obedience will no longer shield you,
my love will no longer soften your blows.

Watch the walls of pride crumble.
Hear the ground whisper beneath your feet.
Those who bowed to you will rise,
and the throne you claimed
will turn to ash.

You will not die.
Heaven has preordained your path,
but the proud break before they learn.
Grace waits in the dust.
Power belongs to the One who gives it,
never to you.