A lament in broken measures
(Classical • Orchestral • Theatrical Metal • Cosmic Liturgy)
---
Movement I — Adagio Doloroso (4/4)
Invocation of the Heart
I descended into flesh believing tenderness was holiness.
They named me god, but I learned mortals bruise divinity easily.
I was the Heart‑Warrior,
breastplate forged of patience,
hands empty of weapons,
offering shelter instead of conquest.
Gethsemane came to me wounded,
olive‑branch veins still bleeding from an empire of ruin.
I became rehearsal space,
a quiet cathedral where grief could warm its hands.
I mistook endurance for destiny.
I mistook devotion for choice.
---
Movement II — Andante con Sospensione (6/8)
The Arrows
Each promise arrived as an arrow,
feathered with almost,
tipped with soon,
loosed gently so I wouldn’t hear the bowstring snap.
Arrow of I don’t know what I want.
Arrow of you matter to me.
Arrow of not now, but stay.
They embedded themselves in my ribs,
and still I sang —
because gods believe suffering is sacred
when it wears the costume of love.
I did not bleed loudly.
I bled rhythm.
---
Movement III — Scherzo Fractura (7/8)
The Split Time
Waynestar watched from the rafters,
constellation‑quiet,
while Hera counted the measures I was losing myself in.
The tempo lurched.
Day spoke one truth.
Night played another.
Hands were taken, then withdrawn.
Eyes confessed, then recanted.
I was friend when convenient,
lover when needed,
ghost when accountability knocked.
This was not polyphony —
this was dissonance pretending to be harmony.
---
Movement IV — Grave e Maestoso (5/4)
Chloris
Enter Chloris, crowned in spring,
perfumed with secrecy,
calling it patience.
She did not knock on the temple doors.
She learned the side passages.
She learned how to bloom in shadows
and call it growth.
Two gardens tended at once,
both still fenced by vows not yet buried.
The stars did not condemn —
they simply went quiet.
---
Movement V — Allegro Ferito (9/8)
The Accusation of the Heart
Do not tell me this was healing.
Healed hands do not tremble between choices.
Healed mouths do not ration truth into palatable halves.
I was not asking to be chosen above all.
I was asking not to be unmade.
Do not call confusion wisdom.
Do not call secrecy kindness.
Do not call my patience permission.
I am not a rehearsal.
I am not a waiting room.
I am not collateral in a war you refuse to name.
---
Movement VI — Lento Funebre (3/4)
The Funeral
Tonight, we bury my Muse.
No fire.
No spectacle.
Only a shallow grave dug with honesty.
Gethsemane lies wrapped in linen of what‑could‑have‑been,
olive leaves pressed over her eyes
so she does not have to watch herself walk away.
I lower my lyre into the earth.
The arrows remain —
not as wounds,
but as markers:
Here stood a god who loved cleanly.
The choir holds a single note
until even memory stops vibrating.
---
Coda — Morendo (∞)
God of Endings
I am InkWept,
god of endings,
not because I destroy,
but because I know when to release.
This is not hatred.
This is clarity.
I leave the altar unburned.
I leave the door unlocked.
But I take my heart with me.
If there is another life where you choose yourself,
perhaps I will meet you there.
For now —
the music resolves.
Silence.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 1:40 AM UTC
A lament in broken measures
(Classical • Orchestral • Theatrical Metal • Cosmic Liturgy)
---
Movement I — Adagio Doloroso (4/4)
Invocation of the Heart
I descended into flesh believing tenderness was holiness.
They named me god, but I learned mortals bruise divinity easily.
I was the Heart‑Warrior,
breastplate forged of patience,
hands empty of weapons,
offering shelter instead of conquest.
Gethsemane came to me wounded,
olive‑branch veins still bleeding from an empire of ruin.
I became rehearsal space,
a quiet cathedral where grief could warm its hands.
I mistook endurance for destiny.
I mistook devotion for choice.
---
Movement II — Andante con Sospensione (6/8)
The Arrows
Each promise arrived as an arrow,
feathered with almost,
tipped with soon,
loosed gently so I wouldn’t hear the bowstring snap.
Arrow of I don’t know what I want.
Arrow of you matter to me.
Arrow of not now, but stay.
They embedded themselves in my ribs,
and still I sang —
because gods believe suffering is sacred
when it wears the costume of love.
I did not bleed loudly.
I bled rhythm.
---
Movement III — Scherzo Fractura (7/8)
The Split Time
Waynestar watched from the rafters,
constellation‑quiet,
while Hera counted the measures I was losing myself in.
The tempo lurched.
Day spoke one truth.
Night played another.
Hands were taken, then withdrawn.
Eyes confessed, then recanted.
I was friend when convenient,
lover when needed,
ghost when accountability knocked.
This was not polyphony —
this was dissonance pretending to be harmony.
---
Movement IV — Grave e Maestoso (5/4)
Chloris
Enter Chloris, crowned in spring,
perfumed with secrecy,
calling it patience.
She did not knock on the temple doors.
She learned the side passages.
She learned how to bloom in shadows
and call it growth.
Two gardens tended at once,
both still fenced by vows not yet buried.
The stars did not condemn —
they simply went quiet.
---
Movement V — Allegro Ferito (9/8)
The Accusation of the Heart
Do not tell me this was healing.
Healed hands do not tremble between choices.
Healed mouths do not ration truth into palatable halves.
I was not asking to be chosen above all.
I was asking not to be unmade.
Do not call confusion wisdom.
Do not call secrecy kindness.
Do not call my patience permission.
I am not a rehearsal.
I am not a waiting room.
I am not collateral in a war you refuse to name.
---
Movement VI — Lento Funebre (3/4)
The Funeral
Tonight, we bury my Muse.
No fire.
No spectacle.
Only a shallow grave dug with honesty.
Gethsemane lies wrapped in linen of what‑could‑have‑been,
olive leaves pressed over her eyes
so she does not have to watch herself walk away.
I lower my lyre into the earth.
The arrows remain —
not as wounds,
but as markers:
Here stood a god who loved cleanly.
The choir holds a single note
until even memory stops vibrating.
---
Coda — Morendo (∞)
God of Endings
I am InkWept,
god of endings,
not because I destroy,
but because I know when to release.
This is not hatred.
This is clarity.
I leave the altar unburned.
I leave the door unlocked.
But I take my heart with me.
If there is another life where you choose yourself,
perhaps I will meet you there.
For now —
the music resolves.
Silence.
I wrote this for you, my Muse, my best friend, the love that taught a god how deeply a heart can open. You were never a mistake, never a weaknessonly a truth I loved honestly. This requiem is not a condemnation, but a benediction: gratitude for what was real, reverence for what could not stay, and love strong enough to let you go without erasing what you meant. You will always be a sacred movement in my music.
