The Silent Imprint of Touch

On the worn disc, where the kingdom was inscribed,
now a weave of wrinkles has been entwined.
Not of gold nor of glory, but of faded veil,
the sovereign’s brow grew abstract and mute.

Anonymous hands, swift, a million touches,
have sculpted an atlas of imperceptible wear.
Every tiny fold, a delicate breach,
tells of the current that has lost its measure.

It is not his lament, nor a breath held low,
but the slow depositing of a shadow without history.
A code of frictions, an imprinted whisper
that inscribes the memory of pure passage, devoid of glory.