The Wheel

Let it be written: the wheel turns

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Hear this.

For thousands of years
Myth has driven the cart.
He named conquest destiny.
He called rivers of blood sacrifice.
He flipped the poles and declared it order.
He crowned violence with meaning
and we bowed to the crown.

But the crown is rust.
The hands are tired.
The stories are spent.

Let it be written:
Myth must step down.

Truth—
take the wheel.

Poetry, stand near.
You may witness.
You may remember.
You may sing what is seen.
But you shall not intervene.

Do not perfume the wound.
Do not soften the blade.
Do not turn blood into wine again.

You and Myth taught us to drink suffering
as if it were sacred.
You wrapped chains in metaphor
and called them epics.
You stalled the necessary breaking
by making it beautiful.

No more.

Let this be the decree:
No disguises on the cart.
No allegories hiding the bodies.
No symbols smuggling comfort.

Truth will drive without costume.
Truth will name what is.
Truth will not bargain with illusion.

Let the road be harsh.
Let the wreckage be visible.
Let consequence stand uncovered.

Healing will not come from story.
It will come from seeing.
It will come from ending the lie.

And the wheel will turn—
not by prophecy,
not by promise,
but by clarity.

So tomorrow does not remain a sermon.
So tomorrow is not postponed by poetry.
So tomorrow arrives—
undecorated, undeniable, real.

Let it be written.
Let it begin.