☆• «Throne of Frost».

*She: — “Angelich, we’re done. I found a better man.
You’re just a phase I’m leaving – understand?”
He: — “After everything? But I gave you my all…”
Her cold silence was the final call.*

That night the mirror cracked, the boy began to drown,
He buried childish dreams beneath a tailored crown.
Now he walks the red carpet, hands locked behind his spine,
Each step a blade of steel – the sharpest in design.
Through a cold and mausoleum room of velvet and of gold,
He sinks into the president’s chair – the story’s bought and sold.
Left leg crosses over right, a casual, cruel repose,
While on the marble windowsill the city’s pigeons roost.
Confetti of torn paper hearts falls silent from above –
He doesn’t feel a single thing he used to call “love.”

He clenches his fist – the photo of her face,
One flick of his lighter, a burning embrace.
The picture bleeds – it weeps with crimson lines,
While the only warmth he knew dissolves like twisted vines.

Angelich sits on a throne made of frost,
Every feeling he had is a ledger now lost.
All the eyes in the ceiling watch him grin –
Rows of hallucinations stitched inside his skin.
Cold ticker tapes, a painted smile too wide,
No heartbeat left to break, nothing left to hide.
Angelich – the name they whisper low –
He sold his soul to let the money grow.

The leeches come with honeyed words and cling onto his frame,
He breaks them softly, one by one, then sets their hearts in flame.
His empire spikes, his guns don’t shoot – they fire wads of cash,
And every teardrop on the floor is somebody else’s crash.
The nightmares sew a thousand eyes that blink inside his room,
A nervous twitch – a sudden glance – he trademarks his own doom.
The past sneaks in with bleeding knees, a ghost in broken glass,
But he just smirks at memory and lets the moment pass.

He remembers sinking through the ice – a bullet in his chest,
The water turned a violent red, he lost all need for rest.
His thoughts grew deaf, his soul went numb, his face became a mask,
He keeps on walking – where? he doesn’t ask.
No destination, no emotion, just the echo of his stride –
An empty king with hollow eyes on a perpetual ride.

Now every screen in every store is showing Angelich,
In a dark suit, with a dead stare – no smile to relieve.
He leans into the silver mic and speaks in monotone,
“Success is just a tombstone you can polish till you own.”
The cameras love the flawless mask, the press adores the chill,
But somewhere in the static waves a single voice is still:
The little boy who used to cry is buried way beneath –
And in his chest, instead of heart, a blackened set of teeth.

He stays on his cold throne, leg crossed, watching the night,
Grey pigeons scatter as he turns off every light.
No dream, no tear, no heat, no beat –
Only the empire’s heartbeat:
silence, complete.

— Angelskij/Ангелич
(https://t.me/poet_ot_boga)