**The Hand That Remained Closed**

The man I buried would have forged your shadows
into shackles of their own,
would have crowned every phantom you imagined
and pointed them back toward your throne.

The old blood knew only retaliation.
It measured justice by the weight of ruin,
and every wound demanded
an equal storm.

But the hands I carry now
serve a higher Light.
Power means little
if it exists only to prove
it can destroy.

Mercy is the heavier burden.

You mistake restraint for weakness,
silence for surrender,
and patience for permission.

So you press.
Again.
And again.

Never asking
whether the line before you
belongs to a man
or to something far greater
than your understanding.

You believe your quarrel
is with flesh and bone,
when all you truly battle
is the order woven
through every breath you borrow.

Strange, isn't it?

You curse the sky
while wondering
why no doors remain open.

You scatter your own harvest,
then accuse the field
of refusing to grow.

The old me
would have answered your hatred
with devastation.

The one standing here
answers it
with an empty hand.

Not because I lack the strength
to close it into a fist—

but because I know
the cost
of every blow.

Remember this:

The greatest power
is not found
in those who can destroy worlds.

It is found
in those who could,
yet choose
to leave the scales
to the One
who holds them.