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InkWeptPoems
I. Return to the Shinigami Realm I have returned for good to the shinigami realm, it seems— to the place where final notes are law, where black cathedrals pierce a starless ceiling like ribs around a dead god’s heart. I sit atop one of my vast cathedrals in my realm of endings, and the wind up here sounds like bowed strings drawn slow across bone. The cosmos keeps time in cold signatures— 5/4 pulse, 7/8 dread— but my hands won’t cue the cutoff. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. Below me, the architecture is built of closure: vaulted absolutions, corridors of last breath, stained glass made from shattered outcomes. This is where wars are filed into silence, where conquered dreams are placed like crowns on the heads of the defeated and the victorious alike. I am not a kindly god. I am a necessary one— a god of fate and final chosen destiny, a god who sinks his teeth into finality because finality is the only honest thing. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. II. Who Gethsemane Was And yet I keep thinking of her— Gethsemane. A human. Mortal. Temporary. Not born divine, not meant for myth, just a living pulse on a small world that spins like a vinyl record under indifferent stars. She taught me human lessons on love without meaning to, the way a candle teaches a cathedral about warmth— by daring to burn. She showed me how music tastes can paint a mood, how a person can be an entire atmosphere, how a human can make you feel seen even when you are a god who should never need sight. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. I watched her the way storms watch shorelines— returning, returning, pretending it was only weather. But it wasn’t. It was obsession dressed as duty, curiosity disguised as judgment, and the slow catastrophe of tenderness finding a place to live inside me. I was supposed to be above it. I was supposed to be finished. Instead, I learned longing— that mortal spell that makes even a god delay the inevitable. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. III. The Accident That Made a Goddess I did what I swear I would never do: I tampered. Not with a gentle nudge— with the kind of interference that changes the score itself. I reached into mortal life and pulled a thread that was not mine to touch. I meant to observe. I meant to end. But love is a knife that slips, and the cut went wrong. I did not simply alter her path— I transformed her nature. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. Gethsemane stopped being only human. She became something else— Songwept. The Goddess of Beginnings. Not a metaphor. Not a nickname. A real divinity born from my mistake. Where I rule the last breath, she exhales the first. Where I close the coffin lid of fate, she opens doors and calls it mercy. Her power is genesis— new mornings, new chances, the awful, beautiful engine of “again.” And my realm—my perfect machinery of finality— felt the shockwave of her first note. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. IV. What Her Existence Did to My Realm While I was in the human world, I felt my realm destabilizing like a cathedral in an earthquake. The bells didn’t toll when they should. The choir held notes too long. The downbeat arrived and… nothing resolved. People who should have met their endings remained. Worlds that should have collapsed into themselves remained wholly intact— as if the universe had become afraid to complete the sentence. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. I watched destinies refuse their own conclusions, watched entropy hesitate, watched the black ocean of inevitability develop a trembling shoreline. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t chance. It was me. My attention was elsewhere— caught in mortal rooms, mortal voices, caught in the bright sickness of wanting to be loved back by something temporary. And because I was too focused on falling in love with humans, endings that should have occurred simply continued— stretched, postponed, rerouted, denied. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. V. The Vow to Stop Tampering So I have returned. For good. I am done tampering with the lives of mortals. They offer only heartbreaking and never-ending promises of new beginnings— as if beginning again is the same as being saved. As if restarting the song undoes the damage of the chorus. I have no need for beginnings. Beginnings are a hunger that never finishes eating. Finality is what I crave to sink my teeth into— the clean severing, the honest close, the last note that doesn’t beg for an encore. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. I am a god of conquered dreams, won and lost wars, a god of fate and final chosen destiny— and the work is not optional. My duties are of great importance. If I do not end what must end, realities pile up like bodies that won’t fall, and the universe becomes a haunted house filled with doors that never shut. I know this. I have always known this. And yet the one thing that undoes my certainty is the human thing I learned: love can quiet even a god. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. VI. What Love Did to InkWept Human love stills my heart’s measure. It clouds my celestial mind. It makes my cosmic arithmetic go soft— turning absolute endings into “maybe later,” turning execution into indulgence, turning prophecy into apology. I hate that about it. I worship that about it. It is a hymn and a wound. It is a chandelier made of teeth. It is velvet over a grave. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. Even now, seated above my vast cathedral, I feel the pull of that mortal lesson— the way a single human can make a god question his own nature. I was made to understand endings, not to understand humans. I am a disenfranchised god among mortals trying desperately to understand the ways of humans— why they chase beginnings like salvation, why they call unfinished things “hope,” why they can break your world with a smile and not even know they did it. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. VII. The Final Accounting And Songwept exists now— the Goddess of Beginnings— because I loved wrong, because I touched what should have been allowed to live and end as it was meant to. My realm will stabilize only if I stop returning, stop tasting mortal life, stop pretending my duty can wait while I chase warmth in a world of candles. Endings require my full attention. Without it, fate frays. Without it, the dead linger. Without it, worlds refuse to collapse. Without it, the cosmos forgets how to close its eyes. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. So I sit here— in my realm of endings, on the cathedral roofline, with all my power and all my restraint, knowing exactly what must be done and exactly what it cost me to learn it. Beginnings can have their goddess. Mortals can have their promises. But I will not tamper again— because my love does not just wound me. It destabilizes the universe. And that is the cruelest lesson a god can learn from a human. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure.
0
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 6:27 PM UTC
CATHEDRAL OF THE MISSED CUT
I. Return to the Shinigami Realm I have returned for good to the shinigami realm, it seems— to the place where final notes are law, where black cathedrals pierce a starless ceiling like ribs around a dead god’s heart. I sit atop one of my vast cathedrals in my realm of endings, and the wind up here sounds like bowed strings drawn slow across bone. The cosmos keeps time in cold signatures— 5/4 pulse, 7/8 dread— but my hands won’t cue the cutoff. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. Below me, the architecture is built of closure: vaulted absolutions, corridors of last breath, stained glass made from shattered outcomes. This is where wars are filed into silence, where conquered dreams are placed like crowns on the heads of the defeated and the victorious alike. I am not a kindly god. I am a necessary one— a god of fate and final chosen destiny, a god who sinks his teeth into finality because finality is the only honest thing. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. II. Who Gethsemane Was And yet I keep thinking of her— Gethsemane. A human. Mortal. Temporary. Not born divine, not meant for myth, just a living pulse on a small world that spins like a vinyl record under indifferent stars. She taught me human lessons on love without meaning to, the way a candle teaches a cathedral about warmth— by daring to burn. She showed me how music tastes can paint a mood, how a person can be an entire atmosphere, how a human can make you feel seen even when you are a god who should never need sight. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. I watched her the way storms watch shorelines— returning, returning, pretending it was only weather. But it wasn’t. It was obsession dressed as duty, curiosity disguised as judgment, and the slow catastrophe of tenderness finding a place to live inside me. I was supposed to be above it. I was supposed to be finished. Instead, I learned longing— that mortal spell that makes even a god delay the inevitable. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. III. The Accident That Made a Goddess I did what I swear I would never do: I tampered. Not with a gentle nudge— with the kind of interference that changes the score itself. I reached into mortal life and pulled a thread that was not mine to touch. I meant to observe. I meant to end. But love is a knife that slips, and the cut went wrong. I did not simply alter her path— I transformed her nature. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. Gethsemane stopped being only human. She became something else— Songwept. The Goddess of Beginnings. Not a metaphor. Not a nickname. A real divinity born from my mistake. Where I rule the last breath, she exhales the first. Where I close the coffin lid of fate, she opens doors and calls it mercy. Her power is genesis— new mornings, new chances, the awful, beautiful engine of “again.” And my realm—my perfect machinery of finality— felt the shockwave of her first note. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. IV. What Her Existence Did to My Realm While I was in the human world, I felt my realm destabilizing like a cathedral in an earthquake. The bells didn’t toll when they should. The choir held notes too long. The downbeat arrived and… nothing resolved. People who should have met their endings remained. Worlds that should have collapsed into themselves remained wholly intact— as if the universe had become afraid to complete the sentence. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. I watched destinies refuse their own conclusions, watched entropy hesitate, watched the black ocean of inevitability develop a trembling shoreline. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t chance. It was me. My attention was elsewhere— caught in mortal rooms, mortal voices, caught in the bright sickness of wanting to be loved back by something temporary. And because I was too focused on falling in love with humans, endings that should have occurred simply continued— stretched, postponed, rerouted, denied. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. V. The Vow to Stop Tampering So I have returned. For good. I am done tampering with the lives of mortals. They offer only heartbreaking and never-ending promises of new beginnings— as if beginning again is the same as being saved. As if restarting the song undoes the damage of the chorus. I have no need for beginnings. Beginnings are a hunger that never finishes eating. Finality is what I crave to sink my teeth into— the clean severing, the honest close, the last note that doesn’t beg for an encore. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. I am a god of conquered dreams, won and lost wars, a god of fate and final chosen destiny— and the work is not optional. My duties are of great importance. If I do not end what must end, realities pile up like bodies that won’t fall, and the universe becomes a haunted house filled with doors that never shut. I know this. I have always known this. And yet the one thing that undoes my certainty is the human thing I learned: love can quiet even a god. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. VI. What Love Did to InkWept Human love stills my heart’s measure. It clouds my celestial mind. It makes my cosmic arithmetic go soft— turning absolute endings into “maybe later,” turning execution into indulgence, turning prophecy into apology. I hate that about it. I worship that about it. It is a hymn and a wound. It is a chandelier made of teeth. It is velvet over a grave. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. Even now, seated above my vast cathedral, I feel the pull of that mortal lesson— the way a single human can make a god question his own nature. I was made to understand endings, not to understand humans. I am a disenfranchised god among mortals trying desperately to understand the ways of humans— why they chase beginnings like salvation, why they call unfinished things “hope,” why they can break your world with a smile and not even know they did it. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. VII. The Final Accounting And Songwept exists now— the Goddess of Beginnings— because I loved wrong, because I touched what should have been allowed to live and end as it was meant to. My realm will stabilize only if I stop returning, stop tasting mortal life, stop pretending my duty can wait while I chase warmth in a world of candles. Endings require my full attention. Without it, fate frays. Without it, the dead linger. Without it, worlds refuse to collapse. Without it, the cosmos forgets how to close its eyes. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure. So I sit here— in my realm of endings, on the cathedral roofline, with all my power and all my restraint, knowing exactly what must be done and exactly what it cost me to learn it. Beginnings can have their goddess. Mortals can have their promises. But I will not tamper again— because my love does not just wound me. It destabilizes the universe. And that is the cruelest lesson a god can learn from a human. I am a god of endings, and still, love unbalances my measure.
I return to my realm of endings to reckon with the love that nearly unraveled fate. As a disenfranchised a god, I recount how loving a mortal fractured fate itself and rewrote the laws of endings.
#love#inkwept#god#worship#fate#devotion#romance#lessons#truth
InkWept
Written by
InkWept
35
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 6:27 PM UTC
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