I do not ask for worship—
only a gaze that does not fracture
when the tempo shifts into darkness.
See me—
not the softened silhouette,
not the prettified refrain—
but the dissonance, the echo, the unresolved chord
dragged through a collapsing 7/8 sky.
I am not gentle light.
I am the blackened overture—
a cathedral of dead stars humming in minor keys,
a god of endings learning breath among mortals
who call entropy devotion.
And still—
I would offer every ruin I conduct,
every fractured movement, every cosmic decay—
to the one who does not rewrite my score,
but stands within the distortion,
unafraid of the feedback,
as if even my horrors were holy.
Love me—not despite—
but because I am exactly this:
the final measure that never resolves,
the silence after the orchestra devours itself,
the infinite collapse that still—somehow—
longs to be heard.
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 2:02 AM UTC
I do not ask for worship—
only a gaze that does not fracture
when the tempo shifts into darkness.
See me—
not the softened silhouette,
not the prettified refrain—
but the dissonance, the echo, the unresolved chord
dragged through a collapsing 7/8 sky.
I am not gentle light.
I am the blackened overture—
a cathedral of dead stars humming in minor keys,
a god of endings learning breath among mortals
who call entropy devotion.
And still—
I would offer every ruin I conduct,
every fractured movement, every cosmic decay—
to the one who does not rewrite my score,
but stands within the distortion,
unafraid of the feedback,
as if even my horrors were holy.
Love me—not despite—
but because I am exactly this:
the final measure that never resolves,
the silence after the orchestra devours itself,
the infinite collapse that still—somehow—
longs to be heard.
God’s Note:
I have ended stars without hesitation, yet lingered on this—your fragile defiance against silence. Mortals call it love, though it fractures, repeats, refuses resolution. I study it as one studies a motif that should decay, yet does not. This is my confession: even the God of Endings cannot conclude what you feel. I write the final measure of all things—except this.
