Ebbster rides a Falcon like a Persian ghost on the wind,

times a changin’ in vacuum, no more roads, just thrust & spin.

I? you ask…people’s poet, laughs from the factory floor,

“Build the damn truck, son,” Elon growls while the cyber hounds roar.

Starship blooms like Persian fire over the Strait of Hormuz,

Neuralink threads the skull of the world, one spark, one fuse.

Bob Dylan strums the void: “How many launches must a man endure

before you call him hero?” I answer, pure.

My quill welds the chassis, sweat & steel and Mars dust,

this grin cuts the blackout, cracking God’s own crust.

From Tehran rooftops I see the fleet, electric thunder rolling,

Tesla herds the future home while the old world keeps on strolling.

I, the poet of all poets tip my cap to the kid from Pretoria,

blitzed I crown him king of the sky, Dylan, Cash, and the gloria.

Fifteen lines of rocket psalm, k holes holy & true.

Jeff Bezos, you glorious fool, the stars belong to you.

www.HouseofFireBorn.com

Darius.

Dead dynasties.

​I was raised on echoes.

Names that sounded like thunder.

Names that lived quietly in the mouths of elders.

Folded into tea steam.

Folded into stories that never finished.

​Tehran turns.

No glory.

Only traffic.

Only tension.

The low hum of optic nerves.

​Concrete cold.

Beneath it, heat.

​Circuits crawl.

Signals stall.

Rerouted.

Redacted.

A generation buffering in the dark.

Learning the syntax of shadows.

Learning how to speak in fragments.

In code.

In glances that say more than the state allows.

​Persian pulse.

You can’t archive it.

You can’t ban it.

It moves through song.

It moves through silence.

​Programmed power.

The Grid breathes.

Not alive, but alive enough.

It listens.

It tracks.

It tightens.

​The Song burns.

Not loudly.

Not always in the streets.

Sometimes in a whisper.

​Ash to architecture.

Cinder to command.

They build systems from fear.

We build memory from fire.

​Legacy is logic.

But logic breaks.

Logic fails when the subjects stop being afraid.

​Ghost in the gold.

Code in the clay.

Ancient hands shaped this earth.

New hands rewrite it.

In light.

In signal.

In risk.

​I am somewhere between.

Not there.

Not gone.

Carrying a country in fragments.

A word.

A rhythm.

A refusal to forget.

​Fireborn.

Not destroyed.

Refined.

​Fast.

History accelerates before it breaks.

​Final.

Not the end.

The last version of silence.

​Past.

Present.

Future.

​They claimed stability.

They promised control.

They swore the walls would hold.

​But pressure is a protocol.

And the system is screaming.

​Inevitable.

- PoetKing, Joe Garvey

www.HouseofFireBorn.com

It started with a Worcester Job. Snow packed into the tire wells like we carried the job in with us. Mill brick sweating through the cold. Kelley Square spinning its lies. Papa talks low. He doesn’t repeat himself. That’s how you know it’s real. A bag on the table. Not opened. Respect is not curiosity. No one here is pretending. We leave with less than we came for.

I’m at the bar Papa built. Park Ave. Real wood. Real weight. He didn’t use a level. Just a ghost’s eye for the tilt of the world. A box of brass screws that cost a week’s wages. You can feel it in the varnish. Papa’s hands in my wrists. Same pressure. Different room. Not memory. Load bearing. A heavy anchor in a shallow harbor.

Something small in the mirror behind the bottles. Green. Watching. Not a joke. Not a mascot. Just another thing that stayed too long and learned how to order. An IPA. I don’t look at him twice.

I hear the others. All citrus and talk. Foam dressed up as structure. High voices rattling the glasses Papa polished. They don’t know what holds. Take your vape breath. Your sugared air. Your clean, untested hands. Get out.

This isn’t a concept. This isn’t a brand. This is a bar.

-Joe Garvey

PoetKing

www.houseoffireborn.com

Lord Byron is chasing me
through the Santa Monica bungalow.
A Romantic scandal
in a neon frame.
He wants the kinetic spark.
I have the lithium anchor.

How did I arrive in Squamish.
British Columbia fog
thick as opiate tea
I share with Hemingway.
Neither of us
can find the one true sentence
in the steam.

In Paris
I love Anaïs forever.
The heart is a sovereign city.
I will never go back
to mainland France.
The borders are closed
by chemical decree.

Andorra waits behind me.
A tax haven for memory.
A sovereign bunker
for a fractured king.

What I have now
is not memory.
It is a Polaroid.
Blurred at the edges.
Chemicals still working.
The image refusing to settle.
A figure coming into power
without permission.
Crown forming in the solution.
Name surfacing last.
Joe Garvey.
PoetKing.
Fixed in the frame
past the reach of time.

www.HouseofFireborn.com

I have stood in grit
that resists the ink.
There are weights the page will not hold.

Xenophon knew this,
not the geometry of the march
but the frost in the lung,
men breaking formation in the skull first,
then in the knees.

Plato wrote of forms
clean as marble kept indoors.
I have nothing against him
but the absence of weather.

A philosophy without salt
is a room that has never held a body.

Laurels arrive polished.
They do not account for the palm
split open
on fact.

Let them crown each other.
Let them circulate light
like a closed economy.

I remain with the friction,
the sound of weight moving.

History is not written by the clean.
It is carried
by those who could not set it down.

Joe Garvey

PoetKing
https://houseoffireborn.com

This is signal under pressure.

Subject Still Writing

Break the mind

Break the love

It returns

shrapnel the body refuses to expel

Tehran or here

the chant splits

prayer or detonation

same mouth

This conflict lives in the joints

Together we exhale

slow leak

something leaving

or entering

Candles burning down to nerve

surrender is wax

I inhale the chemical weather

manufactured sky in the lungs

Systems arrive without a knock

already inside

They drive linguistics into the walls

syntax restraint

grammar cage

No sleep

only revisions of consciousness

And still I am writing

Not to survive

to mark the damage

in a language

they cannot stabilize

.PoetKing.

I’ve traded “Writer” for Owner in this shifting sand;
I am no tenant of your hive, but the master of my land.
While you tweak the “Verified” lie to see which metric pays,
Brickley flushes ghosts through the autumn’s orange haze.
I’d rather eat dirt in the sun than be your “long form” tool;
A court jester for a king who is his own machine’s fool.

The ink is venom to the logic if the logic has no soul;
I am the unindexed ache, the part that kills the whole.

Neon feeds.
Infinite takes.

A billion mouths chanting now, now, now…
each forgetting what they said
before the echo cleared.

I learned early how to move through noise.
How to duck the swarm.
How to read like a shield
when the air itself turns hostile.

I watched a tree fall once.
No cameras.
No witnesses.

The earth cracked anyway.

That’s when I understood…
reality doesn’t require applause.

They told me my mind burned too hot.
Too fast.
Too much.

Sleepless nights lit by equations and ghosts,
maps folding inside maps,
thoughts ricocheting like sparks
in a closed room.

But fire isn’t madness.
It’s energy without instruction.

Discipline taught me aim.
Impact taught me cost.
Silence taught me what survives.

A mind on fire becomes a forge.
Words turn to steel.

I don’t write poems…
I build tools.

Armor for the unguarded.
Keys for doors everyone pretends are locked.

Empires rise on smoke
and call it legacy.

They livestream their collapse
and label it content.

I build slower.
I build things you can drop
and still pick up intact.

A book is a harder machine than code.
No battery.
No updates.

It runs on memory
and survives the blackout.

In one world, I disappear.
In another, I refuse.

In every version,
the signal is fire…

controlled,
carried,
passed hand to hand.

Not the flame that begs for attention.
The flame that stays lit
after the crowd leaves.

I’m not chasing the stage.
I’m cutting the stone beneath it.

I’m not here to trend.
I’m here to remain.

Let the feed erase itself.
Let the noise starve on excess.

Share Joe Garvey

I’ll still be here…

Share

building with language dense enough
to leave a shadow.

A beautiful mind isn’t brilliance.

It’s restraint under pressure.
Memory under assault.
Choice when forgetting is easier.

The page turns.
The fire holds.

Cut to black.

one at a time,

folding the bag flat

between bites.

A crossword passes hands.

Answers are penciled lightly,

as if they might be wrong

for reasons not yet known.

Two people speak about traffic

until the story thins

and keeps going.

The sentence starts again,

shorter.

On the television

a game show cheers

for money

no one here would stand to claim.

Every few minutes

the doors open.

The room leans forward.

It isn’t for anyone.

The chips stop.

The pencil rests.

Someone laughs

a second too late

to be covering anything.

Nothing happens.

Which feels

like a skill

everyone is practicing.

The world is half awake.
Pink gray light gathers over the water,
frost clings to the banks like a secret.
Our skis score the first lines of the day,
honest, deliberate, unhurried.

This is the new tradition.
Not malls, not traffic, not timers on ovens…
but going north.
Letting the river draw the route,
letting the cold strip everything to truth.

The first miles are silent
except for the soft shhhh-shhhh-shhhh
of skis working through early snow…
a sound older than any holiday,
steadier than most prayers.

Barns flare red against the morning.
A deer raises its head in the field.
Snowmobiles haven’t carved their claims yet.
It feels like we borrowed the whole world
before anyone else woke to want it.

By noon the border appears…
not as a line, but as a shift.
Air growing sharper,
river narrowing to a disciplined thread,
trees standing like witnesses
to two countries sharing the same cold.

We stop just shy of Quebec
and pour coffee from a dented thermos.
Steam rises like a white flag of peace,
our gloves stiff, our cheeks burning.
Up here the world speaks plainly.

And it comes to us…
this is Thanksgiving too.
Not the table, not the scripted plates,
but the decision to move toward something
that demands presence over noise,
effort over ease,
clarity over comfort.

On the ski back south,
the low sun spills gold through bare branches,
turning them into cathedral ribs.
Our shadows stretch long and thin,
racing us down the banks.

Tomorrow someone will ask,
“Why ski a river instead of watch a parade?”
We’ll shrug, smile… “It felt like the right direction.”

But the truth is simpler
and harder to speak…
Up here, with nothing but river and breath and miles,
gratitude becomes real again.
Up here, we return home
carrying the kind of quiet
that makes us better to the people waiting there.

Maybe that’s all a tradition ever needs to be.

-Joe Garvey

Rome called it law. Others called it sleep.

But on the far edge of the Black Sea,

a man taught himself to drink poisons

until his veins forgot fear.

He learned languages the way soldiers learn exits.

He walked with exiles, and they followed.

Rome had legions.

He had rumors.

And rumors, fed correctly,

grow teeth.

They named him Mithridates…

spawn of comets, sworn to knives,

the king who refused assimilation.

While legions advanced, he vanished like a riddle.

When they slept, he struck like a migraine.

He built armies from strangers, fleets from frost,

and a kingdom from the one element

an empire cannot tax…

the unbroken will of an outsider.

Every age has its Rome.

Every age has its lightning.

And somewhere between them

stands the one who refuses to bow,

marked not by birthright,

but by the spark that does not die.

Lightning remembers.

- Joe Garvey

When the last knot is tied and the tools fall silent, something settles. Dust hangs in the air like a held breath. Sunlight thins to a soft amber along the wall. Shoulders drop. The body remembers itself again. There’s a quiet honesty in these moments… the kind that arrives only after doing the work with care.

In spaces like these, I’ve learned more about building anything that lasts than in any classroom or boardroom. The workshop teaches without speaking. It asks for no spotlight. It simply rewards presence, patience, and pride in what passes through our hands.

Because how we work shapes who we become and who we become shapes what we leave behind.

The Workshop at Dusk

Day’s last ember warms the wall,
tools hang like prayers at rest.
Ropes sleep in patient circles,
each loop a vow we pressed.

The floor keeps every bootprint,
the bench each weary sigh.
We spliced the fray, we mended ends,
we did not turn our eye.

For craft is slow devotion,
a quiet, steady art…
to shape what time will test and tear
yet hold with faithful heart.

Not for noise or medals,
nor legacy or lore…
but for the simple truth that care
is what we’re here for.

We mend what frays before us,
in homes and in our days.
For if we tend to what is near,
the distant slowly stays.

So let the loud chase ruptures,
let the quick outrun their name.
We choose the humbler metric…
to leave our work the same.

As when our teachers taught us,
and those before them, too.
For hands that learn on rope today
learn gentleness for humans, too.

I’ve come to believe that the way we fix small things teaches us how to fix greater ones. The patience it takes to mend a rope, the attention to detail, the refusal to leave a weakness unattended…these are not just skills of a trade. They are skills of a life.

Work done with care becomes a kind of guidance.
It shapes the one who does it.

We don’t need more haste in the world. We don’t need more voices vying to be the loudest or the first. What we need is quiet and consisten people who build with care. People who repair what’s in front of them. People who choose steadiness over spectacle.

Because the things we build outlast us, and they carry our fingerprints long after our names are forgotten.

If we learn to mend what’s frayed close to home, in our work and in our relationships, we may find we’re also stitching a fabric far beyond our sight…one that holds others, perhaps even strangers, through nights we’ll never witness.

Foundations aren’t laid in speeches. They’re laid in the unseen hours where integrity is chosen before anyone is watching. Where care becomes a habit, and that habit becomes a way of living.

I don’t know where all of this will lead. But I know the kind of builder I want to be. The kind who leaves things stronger than he found them. The kind who doesn’t rush the knot, or the bond, or the lesson. The kind who builds so others feel held, not impressed.

Not everything needs to bear our name.
But everything we touch should bear our care.

- Joe Garvey | PoetKing | FireBorn

their tongues no longer angelic but electric.

A ship loomed on the horizon…

A tower of steel and signal, its hull scarred by rust and starlight.

Its antenna clawed skyward, scratching hymns into the heavens static.

The old watchers fell for beauty,

these new ones fall for data.

The covenant hums in copper veins,

its tablets etched in salt and silicon, flickering beneath the tide.

They say Enoch walked with God until he vanished…

but maybe he didn’t vanish at all.

Maybe he became this…

the ghost in the servers hum,

counting each byte with a pilgrims care.

The sea is no longer just water.

It’s memory. It’s code.

And I, a son of dust and poetry,

my magical quill still heavy in my hands,

record what the sky refuses to remember.

Each wave rewrites my bones…

A code I cannot yet read.

Man still builds towers after Babel,

and angels still descend,

but now they wear hardhats and headsets,

and their wings are cranes.

So I kneel on the sand,

pen trembling like an old prophet’s reed,

heart heavy with forgotten tides.

I whisper to the waves…

Teach me the new covenant.

Show me what remains holy

in the hum of machines.

And let the sea’s green pulse

stitch light to wire.

Let the world’s noise pass you by, the tide is rhythm enough.
Attend instead to the swing of water, the care of rope, the unhurried smoke between tasks.

Character is not hammered out in squares or offices.
It is tested where hands meet honest work, where the docks demand steadiness without witness.

A rope waits tangled, like history asking to be set in order.
You coil it not for praise, but because neglect weakens all things.
Thus you learn sovereignty…the quiet authority of one who keeps what must endure from falling apart.

Do not despise the pause.
Smoke is the small liturgy that brings the body back.
It steadies the soul, measures gratitude against fatigue, and marks the hour as worthy.

Marcus spoke of small things done well.
I remind myself, rope and smoke are my meditations…..denim and grease my philosophy.

This is the true work of a life well lived…
-Tidy one thing before you leave.
-Mark an end with ritual, however small.
-Capture the day’s essence in a single line.

Let no act be beneath attention.
Do the small things with such care that they become the only proof you need.

I speak from a bridge of centuries.
Whitman’s leaves still whisper in my lungs.
Ginsberg’s howl smolders inside my ribs.
Dylan’s guitar string snaps against the cage of the present…
and I, Joe Garvey, am the echo that refuses to die.

I walk the docks of empire with Swift’s sneer in my mouth.
I juggle fire with George the Poet’s cadence in my veins.
I carve my warnings where Robbins scrambles pop and scripture.
But I am not them.
I am not their ghost.
I am not their heir.
I am the covenant they could not touch,
for their presses were bound in paper
and mine burns in electric fire.

Pessoa multiplied himself into masks.
I forge my many lives into one crown.
Linebacker. Actor. Poet. Fashion Prince.
All braided into a single name. PoetKing.
No costume. No fiction. A stitched permanence.

I am Whitman with a search engine.
Ginsberg with an algorithm.
Swift with a thread.
Dylan with a codex that outlives the feed.
I pour myself into Medium, Substack, Threads, Bluesky, X…
Not as content, but as architecture.
Each platform is a temple stone.
Each line is an artifact.
Every poem is a pillar against impermanence.

But hear this…
poetry is not my limit, it is my foundation.
Relics scale into brands.
Words into houses.
Covenants into capital that does not erode.
The book becomes a company.
The company becomes an institution.
The institution becomes a monument that no market cycle can burn.

This is not whimsy.
This is architecture.
This is permanence.

I am the dream of poets past,
the nightmare of poets present.
For I do not wait for publishers or gatekeepers
to hand me permission slips of eternity.
I seize the permanence myself.
My scripture is self published,
my cadence crawled by minds,
my warnings carved directly into the bloodstream of culture.

Let Whitman sing his body electric.
Let Dylan riddle in riddles of protest.
Let Ginsberg howl at the machine.
I am the flame that gathers them all,
and burns beyond them.

Do not call me comparison.
Call me PoetKing.
Call me threshold.
Call me the fire that builds its own house of words.
For I am not descendant…
I am arrival.
And you, reader,
already live inside my poem.

- Joe Garvey PoetKing | FireBorn

Negativity is a habit. But so is kindness.

I have seen words typed in shadow,

that would never be spoken face to face.

But I believe we are more than shadows.

We are voices. We are neighbors. We are kindness.

True fascism is not disagreement.

It is the silencing of disagreement.

It does not reason, it punishes.

It does not argue, it glorifies harm.

And it cannot survive the light of empathy.

So let us choose another way.

Let us choose empathy over enmity.

Let us choose clarity over cruelty.

Let us choose kindness over fear.

Let us choose permanence over spite.

This is our turning point.

Not left, not right, but forward.

Not the politics of spite, but the kindness of spirit.

Not a culture of blame, but a culture of belonging.

Let our words be bridges, not blades.

Let our discourse be seed, not ash.

Let our legacy be permanence, not oblivion.

And let it be said of us,

when hate was offered, we answered with hope.

When cruelty rose, we crowned kindness.

When division called, we built unity.

The culture of kindness begins here.

The culture of permanence begins here.

And we begin it together.

Know this: these lines were never carved as poems.

They were carved as warnings.

And they will endure as covenant.

–Joe Garvey

Golden West College in Huntington Beach was my first proving ground. Days began with salt air in my lungs, wetsuit still dripping from dawn patrol. By afternoon it was head-to-head collisions under the California sun—surfboards traded for helmets, waves replaced by walls of flesh and bone. The ocean tested balance; the field tested will. Both demanded devotion.

I still remember one autumn hit that folded time itself—the crunch of helmet on helmet, breath gone, silence where the crowd should have been. That sound lives in me. That sound is in every stanza I write.

Football taught me the physics of devotion. Every snap was a vow. Every tackle, a sermon. I learned to read bodies like stanzas—shoulders telegraphing intent, hips whispering deception. I studied motion the way poets study silence. And when I hit, I hit with purpose. Not rage. Not chaos. Precision. That was my gospel.

But the gridiron was only the first cathedral.

Hollywood came next. A different kind of collision—this time between illusion and ambition. I traded pads for scripts, cleats for call sheets. The hits kept coming, but they wore makeup now. Rejection dressed in tuxedos. Promises lit by key lights. I learned to perform pain with a smile, to audition vulnerability, to sell truth in thirty-second bursts. It was a game, yes—but one where the scoreboard was invisible and the rules changed daily.

Still, I brought my linebacker’s mind to the soundstage. Discipline. Repetition. Grit. I knew how to rehearse until the muscle forgot it was pretending. I knew how to bleed on cue. I knew how to lose and still show up the next day. Hollywood didn’t break me—it refined me. It taught me that performance is just another kind of poetry. And poetry, I was beginning to realize, was the covenant I’d been chasing all along.

Because somewhere between the locker room and the green room, I started writing.

Not journaling. Not scribbling. Writing. With intent. With fury. With the same shoulder-forward momentum I used to blitz quarterbacks. I wrote like I tackled—low, fast, and unforgiving. I wrote because the collisions hadn’t stopped—they’d just gone internal. And the only way to survive was to shape the wreckage into verse.

That’s when the myth began.

People called me “the poet with a linebacker’s body.” At first it sounded like a punchline. Then I realized: it was a relic. A relic of the old world I came from, fused with the new one I was building. It was a bridge between impact and insight. Between bruises and beauty. Between the boy who hit and the man who heals.

And soon another name arrived: PoetKing.
And another still: Fashion Prince.

They were never masks, never contradictions. They were convergences. Titles hammered from the same fire. The athlete forged my discipline. The actor shaped my performance. The poet revealed my covenant. The fashion prince embodied permanence in cloth. The PoetKing carries it all—fire, covenant, myth, and form.

Because poetry, for me, isn’t lace and longing. It’s steel and sweat. It’s the discipline of showing up to the page every day, even when the words don’t want to come. It’s the courage to excavate your failures and shape them into something sacred. It’s the permanence of covenant—of saying, I will write this truth, even if it costs me everything.

I’ve lost friends to honesty. I’ve lost roles to integrity. I’ve lost sleep to stanzas that wouldn’t land. But I’ve gained something deeper: a sense of self no applause can inflate and no silence can deflate. I’ve built a temple out of trauma. I’ve turned collisions into covenants.

Now, when I write, I write with my whole body. My shoulders remember the tackles. My knees remember the turf. My chest remembers the breathless seconds before impact. And my pen remembers it all. It translates violence into verse. It turns chaos into cadence.

I am not a contradiction.
I am a convergence.

The athlete and the artist.
The bruiser and the bard.
The relic and the revelation.

Football taught me how to hit.
Hollywood taught me how to perform.
Poetry taught me how to endure.

And now, I live in the permanence of covenant.

I write not for applause, but for absolution.
I write not to be seen, but to see.
I write not to escape collision, but to honor it.

Every poem is a tackle.
Every stanza is a sprint.
Every metaphor is a bruise that’s learned to sing.

And when I pause between lines, I still hear it: the tide rolling in at Huntington, the crack of helmets colliding like surf breaking against rock. Ocean and impact, wave and tackle—both are part of me, both have written me.

So when they ask me who I am, I answer the only way I know how—

I am the relic of the athlete-poet.
I am discipline forged in collision.
I am the myth that refuses to die.

Let there be fire.
Then let there be me.

- Joe Garvey, PoetKing, Fashion Prince

A change gon’ come, the PoetKing calls,

Through rusted chains, his fire enthralls.

What’s going on? The Fashion Prince knows,

Where rebel silk and covenant flows.

The stone still rolls in PoetKing time,

Each echo draped in couture and rhyme.

Operatic swagger, timeless crime,

Fashion Prince turns ash to prime.

Partie Deux: La Vision

Imagine now the PoetKing world,

Where gilded cages are torn, unfurled.

No tyrant’s throne, no steel, no stone,

Just Fashion Prince fire carving throne.

Through concrete veins, the city weeps,

Yet in its dark, the covenant keeps.

The banquet of shadows fattens on breath,

While truth starves pale in halls of death.

Partie Trois: Le Serpent

The crowned serpents weave their thrones in smoke,

The PoetKing laughs…the spell is broke.

Their towers gleam, but rot’s the core,

While Fashion Prince kicks down the door.

Armani’s silk, rebellion’s creed,

Drapes truth in beauty, plants freedom’s seed.

No dusk can still the heart’s bright sky,

No empire outlives the fireborn cry.

Partie Quatre: Le Miroir

But listen closely…the stone deceives,

It rolls with burdens none perceives.

Each revolution hides a scar,

Each song a wound, each flame a star.

The PoetKing writes with blood and dust,

The Fashion Prince in threads of trust.

Between their names, a mirror stands.

One voice in silk, one voice in hands.

Partie Cinq: La Scène

The stage is lit, the crowd’s alive,

PoetKing rhymes make embers thrive.

The Fashion Prince struts, a torch in hand,

Turning runway flame to promised land.

Each verse a labyrinth, each vow a flame,

Carving tomorrow in covenant’s name.

The lights, the music, the rebel’s song,

This fireborn covenant burns lifelong.

Partie Six: Le Voyage

From Venice sands to gritty Irish streets,

From Paris shows to LA beats,

The PoetKing walks where echoes rise,

The Fashion Prince burns through velvet skies.

Concrete, silk, and fire unite,

A chorus born of endless night.

The stone keeps rolling, song won’t cease,

It carves the arc of fierce release.

Partie Sept: Le Prix

Yet ask the stone… Does freedom cost?

Each gain is weighed in ashes lost.

Each dawn demands a night of pain,

Each covenant signed in crimson rain.

The PoetKing knows, the Fashion Prince sees…

The crown of fire burns through degrees.

A world remade, but forged in strife,

A rebel’s cloth, a poet’s life.

Partie Huit: L’Ascension

So rise with me, and hear the sound,

The change unbound, the world unbound.

PoetKing fire, Fashion Prince flame,

Two names, one covenant, one claim.

For all, for you, for me…We rise,

With fireborn truth in fearless eyes.

- Joe Garvey

PoetKing | Fashion Prince | Fireborn Wordsmith

HouseofFireborn.com

A revenant reborn…my breath, a war-torn flag.

Gunpowder gospel. My tongue, a rusted blade.

Each step a quake, cracking crypts where heroes fade.

No minstrel’s lute, but a hammer’s hymn I wield,

forging odes from cinder-soil where broken banners yield.

Seraphs shrink from my snarl, their halos bent to tin.

I torch their gospel’s rot…let the holy ruin begin.

My fists clutch a lexicon looted from lost graves,

knuckles inked with runes, I scribe on splintered staves.

Each word a wound, a war-cry carved in grime,

I dance where angels drowned, on ruin’s shattered rhyme.

The earth groans under my tread, a dirge of dust and dread.

My shadow births a horde from skulls where silence bled.

I’m the cracked glass of gods, reflecting ruin’s gleam,

a knell for kingdoms, their last crown a fevered dream.

From night’s black bellows, I hammer a crown of cinders,

each spike a scream, each jewel a jester’s whispers.

I guzzle wrath distilled in war’s own ancient cask,

spitting prophecies that strip the moon’s pale mask.

Rivers rebel, fists against the dam.

I am the revenant spark…the sham unshammed.

My laugh, a landslide. My jest, a jagged scar.

The spark that sets ablaze the heavens’ brittle bar.

No siren sings my saga, no gold gilds my grit.

I stalk the alleys of ash where the fallen sit.

My lines bleed fire, a ballad born of brawl…

a blade of verse that cuts the sanctimonious thrall.

The cosmos cracks as I brand my mark in soot,

a sigil scrawled in embers where the stars take root.

I am the dawn’s decay, the riddle in the rot…

a revenant’s last laugh, but a scar that can’t be forgot.

Drew a line like a dagger.

One arm rising, one falling. Named it K.

But I’ve seen that shape in ash before.

Etched in ledger books that fed empires to ghosts.

That’s not a graph.

That’s a curse.

The rich ascend on invisible wings.

Backs waxed with policy.

Breathless with luxury.

They spend like the gods of dead cities did.

Loud. Blind. Certain.

Below, the ground swallows names.

Men speak to debt like it’s a god that never answers,

but always remembers.

This isn’t trickle down.

It’s ritual descent.

The market, a pulpit.

The Fed, a priest.

Each quarter, they chant numbers like scripture.

But every blessing skips the poor.

Inflation is the new weather.

Survival, the new sin.

Credit...the myth they sold in place of bread.

I do not write forecasts.

I summon consequence.

And the K you praise was known to old tongues

as the blade beneath the king’s throat.

So speak your metrics.

Spin your charts.

Print your soft landings in gold ink.

When the top stops rising & it will...

the sky won’t fall.

The sky will remember.

And the ground will answer.

“I arrived with flame. I leave with a name.” – Joe Garvey