In cloistered rooms where clocks refuse to chime,
Young men rehearse the posture of control,
Their laughter stiff, rehearsed, for want of time.
The tomb is stone, but deeper is the role—
They wear a father\'s name like borrowed bone,
Uncertain if it fits a mortal soul.
In flickered candle haze, ambition’s loan
Comes due: a whisper promises the sphere,
The keys to gates where normal blood\'s not known.
Their secret? Wanting wildly to appear
More certain than the child they were last year.