I clasped the quill, yet not the prose,

Bound in scripts of silent throes.

A narrative etched by hands not mine,

Dictated fate, confined in time.

They wove my tale in muted ink,

A somber hymn, a fate succinct.

“Conform, comply, do not defy,

Tread meekly, hush—don’t question why.”

But lo! A jest—defiant, grand,

A mirthful scoff at fate’s demand.

Who dares decree my destined lore?

I sculpt, I chisel, I restore!

I struck through anguish, bold, intense,

Penned valor in the present tense.

From sorrow’s depths, I forged delight,

Turned whispered grief to songs of might.

No longer tethered, bound, or swayed,

I mold the end, my hand portrayed.

This epic bends to my decree,

A chronicle of sovereignty.

So, if they query, “Whose tale is this?”

I’ll smirk and say, “Behold—’tis his.”