Why does the story not end?
Don’t you long to know its final breath, oh Sun?
How many words must still be spoken,
How many must still bleed onto the page?

The story is eternal,
Flowing like the tide of time,
Like the ichor of gods and the blood of mortals.
It breathes like a wish,
Drifts like a whisper,
And soars like a bird unchained.

It watches me with the eyes of the abyss,
Loves me with the touch of death.
It lingers in the spaces between silence and sound,
Between memory and forgetting.

As long as I read, it lives.
As long as I listen, it speaks.
No end, no chains, no grave to rest in.
I am the reader—
And so the story walks with me,
Unbound by time.

The lady of the castle, atop the hill,
In a white tunic, graceful and still.
Her hair tied in a bun, a smile on her face,
She walked with her friends, with quiet grace.

Her dress hid the scars, her smile veiled the fear,
A heart full of longing, for love to appear.
Love, and the need for it, so close, yet apart,
Two sides of the same aching heart.

Hands that struck, and blows that fell,
She wore her smile, a silent shell.
No help was sought, for none could see,
The pain she bore, the silent plea.

One day she stumbled upon a bird,
Bruised and afraid, its beauty unheard.
It looked like her—fragile, yet strong,
A soul that had suffered, yet carried on.

She took it in, a home to create,
But hands rose again, sealing her fate.
The evil within, with no joy to gain,
Crushed the bird, adding to her pain.

Her eyes trembled, the smile did fade,
A scream broke free, the silence betrayed.
For the first time, her hand did rise,
Realizing the strength, to no longer disguise.

She struck back, the fear released,
In that moment, her love increased.
She walked out, free from the lie,
For the love of a bird, she learned to fly.

Finally herself, in the light of the dawn,
The bruised lady stood—reborn.

Take measured steps, in solemn grace,
To sacred halls, to faith’s embrace.
A single wish, a whispered plea—
The gods are kind, so bend your knee.

Yet faith must weigh, be tried, be true,
To mark your soul in crimson hue.
So sit upon the altar bare,
And gift your faith in flesh and prayer.

First, the blood—so slit the vein,
Let rivers flow, baptize the stain.
Next, the skin—now tear it wide,
Strip the veil where doubts may hide.

Feel the pain, hold tight, endure—
Desire stands at heaven’s door.
Now the limbs—one leg must go,
Then the other, swift and slow.

A hand remains? Then feast, devour,
For gods demand a sacred hour.
And what is left? One final price—
A soul you love—a sacrifice.

The rite is done, the gods are near,
Speak your wish, and they shall hear.

“Selene, did you hear?”
“Selene, do you know?”
“Selene, you should not.”
“Selene, what do you mean?”
“Selene, would you forgive me?”
“Selene, I promise.”
“Selene…”
“Sel...”
Cursed to never forget, he remembered it all,
Beneath wide branches, beneath shadows that fall.
He gazed at her shell, unmoving, so frail,
Pale face, cold hand—a sorrowful tale.
His heart, it shattered; he reached for her hand.
“Selene, I am here; I’ll help you to stand.”
But lifeless she lay, her body undone,
Crumbled to dust beneath the dim sun.
He prayed to the gods—silence replied,
Turned to the devil—his pleas were denied.
Alone with his grief, cold as the night,
He called to the heavens, no hope in sight.
A broken man, he found my gaze,
Begging, pleading through hollow haze.
“Oh Sun, remember, this tale you’ve seen,
The prayers to gods, to devils, to me.
Remember your cries I chose to ignore,
Remember you asked, you begged, I implored.”
The man shook in despair, torn and undone,
And the ugly hand tore the tale of the Sun and Selene

She could have asked for my heart,
And I would have ripped it from my chest,
With my own hands, no hesitation,
Letting the blood flow, a smile on my face, unbothered.

She could have asked for my soul,
And I would have torn it from this flesh,
Walking soulless, without care,
Peace in my eyes, no pain to confess.

She could have asked for fate itself,
And I would have severed the strings,
Remaining fateless, forever free,
A warmth in my expression, as time unwinds.

But what she asked for was a promise—
A promise to forever be happy.
A promise so hard, so impossible to keep,
And now, I walk through hell with a smile,
Wanting to share the fire with others.

Enduring the pain, erasing the hatred,
The promise, a gift upon parting,
A vow to never disobey,
No matter how cruel, no matter how haunting.

The river flows through mountains steep;
at its end, a house in shadows deep.

If you take my hand, I’ll lead you there—
but hold it tight, with steady care.

The path is thorned, the world will stare,
and gods may envy what we dare.

But if you hold on, I’ll shield you true,
and weave a crown of flowers new.

Yet hold on tight, for fate may stray,
and carry you far and away.

If you stay close, I’ll thread a gown,
of woven fate and silken brown,
so you may dance in the gentle rain,
unbound by sorrow, free of pain.

But hold on tight, for time may part
and draw you from my weary heart.

If still you stay, I’ll halt the years,
to hear your song, untouched by fears.

But hold my hand, lest I forget
the way that’s known, the path we’ve met.

So if you hold on, I’ll keep your tale,
and when we reach the end, unveil
the story I’ve kept within my mind,
and share with you, both true and kind.

Emotions are foreign to me;
I wear their masks to feel human.

Envy, greed, love—I’ve tried them all.
The pen in my hand won’t rest,
driven by the need to write, to taste
what I cannot feel.

Yet behind each mask of deception,
something slips away—a piece,
a fading glimpse of the place I sought,
drifting further from reach.

So I write, tracing each mask I’ve worn,
though my own face, buried in time,
fades beyond recall.