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"beneath their shadows"
"Beneath Their Shadows"
They call me the one who writes between. Not king, not psalmist, not architect of altars.
I do not wear a crown. I wear shadows.
David roared his truth in verses that bled like prophets. Solomon built his wisdom from measured silence. Each left footprints— crimson and chalk— and I walk in the footnotes.
My ink is not flame. It is not stone. It is smoke. It curls upward, between what was declared and what was withheld.
I do not command. I reflect. I do not inherit the throne, but I inherit its dust. I collect what fell between the royal gestures— a sigh after the decree, a tremble beneath the benediction.
David loved fiercely, and broke loudly. His heart sang of God even when it fractured. Solomon stood still, gilded in wisdom, his voice calm as marble.
Me? I learn not by ruling, but by listening. I bend low where they stood tall. I ask questions they left behind.
Some call me elusive. Some say I vanish into metaphor. But I am here— quiet as parchment, steady as twilight.
I have no temple to raise. But I illuminate the chambers they overlooked.
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