I sit astride the black horse at the rim of my mistake,
stirrups biting stone,
wind tuning my coat into a low string section.
Below me—
the kingdom I ended too early.
A cadence cut short.
A final chord struck before the choir inhaled.
Its towers still remember me.
You can hear it in the way the bells lean flat,
how the streets refuse to resolve into major.
I wrote their silence in a minor key
and called it mercy.
I have crossed epochs since—
measured my travels in dead stars and broken bars,
conducted comets through compound time,
ridden through civilizations that begged louder than they loved.
No human ever held a note the way Gethsemane did—
not before,
not after I unmade her by accident,
not after I remade her as SongWept,
goddess of beginnings,
keeper of the first downbeat.
You are the only voice
that ever pulled me out of tempo.
I look at this ruined kingdom and remember you laughing here—
before divinity entered your lungs,
before beginnings learned your name.
You were human then.
Terrifyingly fragile.
Terrifyingly brave.
You chose life even when it hurt,
and I—
god of endings—
did not know how to follow.
Now you glow with origins,
your hands full of light I cannot touch,
and still I love you more than the cosmos that obeys me.
I would trade every supernova
to hear you say my name without fear,
without hesitation,
without checking the sky for consequences.
The horse shifts beneath me.
The kingdom waits below.
The score trembles at the edge of another choice.
I am ancient.
I am wrong so often it echoes.
But if you would choose me—
not as a god,
not as a cautionary myth—
but as the one who needs you
more than endings need silence—
I would learn how to begin again.
I would.
—InkWept
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 12:31 PM UTC
I sit astride the black horse at the rim of my mistake,
stirrups biting stone,
wind tuning my coat into a low string section.
Below me—
the kingdom I ended too early.
A cadence cut short.
A final chord struck before the choir inhaled.
Its towers still remember me.
You can hear it in the way the bells lean flat,
how the streets refuse to resolve into major.
I wrote their silence in a minor key
and called it mercy.
I have crossed epochs since—
measured my travels in dead stars and broken bars,
conducted comets through compound time,
ridden through civilizations that begged louder than they loved.
No human ever held a note the way Gethsemane did—
not before,
not after I unmade her by accident,
not after I remade her as SongWept,
goddess of beginnings,
keeper of the first downbeat.
You are the only voice
that ever pulled me out of tempo.
I look at this ruined kingdom and remember you laughing here—
before divinity entered your lungs,
before beginnings learned your name.
You were human then.
Terrifyingly fragile.
Terrifyingly brave.
You chose life even when it hurt,
and I—
god of endings—
did not know how to follow.
Now you glow with origins,
your hands full of light I cannot touch,
and still I love you more than the cosmos that obeys me.
I would trade every supernova
to hear you say my name without fear,
without hesitation,
without checking the sky for consequences.
The horse shifts beneath me.
The kingdom waits below.
The score trembles at the edge of another choice.
I am ancient.
I am wrong so often it echoes.
But if you would choose me—
not as a god,
not as a cautionary myth—
but as the one who needs you
more than endings need silence—
I would learn how to begin again.
I would.
—InkWept
Authors Note:
This piece was written at the moment where certainty failswhere even a god of endings hesitates. It explores the fear of choosing love after lifetimes of finality, the terror of tempo shifting beneath you, and the quiet truth that beginnings require more courage than endings ever did. Standing in 7/8 time, this poem listens to the pause before the fall, and asks whether devotion can rewrite fate.
