The Weight of Purple

They placed it on my shoulders — cold and heavy, a colour no man chooses for himself. The Senate cheered. The crowd threw ash and laurel. I felt the world compress into a crown. A god in life, they said. A star at death. But gods do not lie sleepless by the fire, counting losses in the dark before the dawn, rehearsing how to die with open eyes.



I did not ask for this. I did not ask for anything. And yet — here I stand.


The weight of purple breaks the spine of lesser men. I carry it — not gladly, but completely. What is given cannot be refused. What is mine to bear, I bear until the end.



They bring me maps of borders, lists of dead, petitions from the provinces in flames. I answer every one before the sun climbs high enough to call this moment noon. And still the night returns, and with it — doubt. Was any war worth what we buried there? The names I cannot say aloud at court I write in secret, here, by candlelight.



The weight of purple breaks the spine of lesser men. I carry it — not gladly, but completely. What is given cannot be refused. What is mine to bear, I bear until the end.



The purple fades. It always fades. And what remains is only what I chose to do with it.