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#darkfantasypoetry
They called us monsters Yet the nightmares leaves us broken Do monsters dream? They called us heartless Yet our hearts beats to the songs of Maiden Will desire ever overcome their fear? We take with force when none is given We dominate with terror When there's none to embrace Yet we'll forever witness time's passage As civilizations bloom, wither, and decay, Their fleeting triumphs— a melancholy spectacle Civilizations bloom and weather A spectacle that never dulls A cycle of birth, decay, and rebirth" Yet there is a void consuming our aging soul Now weary we seek seek solitude Nightmare becomes an embraced fantasy The darkness becomes our day All atrocities committed All failed love forgotten All treasures in possession And yet And now We feel so weary And least we crave for Is our old wars.
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Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 2:15 PM UTC
void-1
Life of an Immortal
They called us monsters Yet the nightmares leaves us broken Do monsters dream? They called us heartless Yet our hearts beats to the songs of Maiden Will desire ever overcome their fear? We take with force when none is given We dominate with terror When there's none to embrace Yet we'll forever witness time's passage As civilizations bloom, wither, and decay, Their fleeting triumphs— a melancholy spectacle Civilizations bloom and weather A spectacle that never dulls A cycle of birth, decay, and rebirth" Yet there is a void consuming our aging soul Now weary we seek seek solitude Nightmare becomes an embraced fantasy The darkness becomes our day All atrocities committed All failed love forgotten All treasures in possession And yet And now We feel so weary And least we crave for Is our old wars.
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I am InkWept— God of Endings, Conductor of the last cadence, the hand that lowers the baton when the orchestra believes it can keep going forever. I write conclusions into bone and breath. I carve the coda into gods who mistake noise for permanence. They feared me once. They mocked me once. Now their myths sleep beneath my footnotes. Yet she moves where I cannot erase. Andi Mae. Goddess of Continuity. Where I sever, she threads. Where I cut clean, she insists on bleed-through. Nothing happens alone— she made that law before time learned to count. She arrives astride the impossible: winged sea-turtles born from supernova deaths, their shells stacked with gothic libraries, spirals of iron spines and stained-glass knowledge cataloging every cause that refused to die quietly. Each star that collapsed into them left behind heroes, villains, footfalls, and the long echo of what followed. She holds her orbit without asking permission. She trades only with Waynestar— Deliberation incarnate, her equal mass. Together they think galaxies into hesitation. Together they remember what the universe tries to forget. Her face is never a face. It is a book— or many— floating, opening, closing with thought. If you want the truth as it happened, read the pages. If you want it interpreted, she’ll smile and translate it with a blade of humor sharp enough to wound gods. She reads minds the way gravity reads light. I cannot hide from her. Not the softness I deny. Not the ache that carries a human name. Sydney. She warns me I am too gentle with mortals. That I linger. That I want to be loved instead of obeyed. She is not wrong. Continuity does not scold— it simply remembers every time I hesitate. I despise the other gods who call humans fragile, who build cages and call them salvation. Humans do not need saving. They need witnessing. And Andi Mae agrees. Together, Andi Mae and Waynestar pulled stardust from collapsed universes, ignited supermoons and meteor fire, and under a rainbow sky tearing itself apart, shaped a child the cosmos did not believe in. Aelyn. Proof that even laws can love. Proof that continuity is not stagnation, but survival with memory intact. I remain the End. She remains the Ever-After. And between us— stories keep walking forward, dragging their consequences like constellations, unable to escape her pages or my final note.
0
Feb 10
Feb 10, 2026 at 10:04 PM UTC
InkWept
CATALOG OF THE UNBROKEN
I am InkWept— God of Endings, Conductor of the last cadence, the hand that lowers the baton when the orchestra believes it can keep going forever. I write conclusions into bone and breath. I carve the coda into gods who mistake noise for permanence. They feared me once. They mocked me once. Now their myths sleep beneath my footnotes. Yet she moves where I cannot erase. Andi Mae. Goddess of Continuity. Where I sever, she threads. Where I cut clean, she insists on bleed-through. Nothing happens alone— she made that law before time learned to count. She arrives astride the impossible: winged sea-turtles born from supernova deaths, their shells stacked with gothic libraries, spirals of iron spines and stained-glass knowledge cataloging every cause that refused to die quietly. Each star that collapsed into them left behind heroes, villains, footfalls, and the long echo of what followed. She holds her orbit without asking permission. She trades only with Waynestar— Deliberation incarnate, her equal mass. Together they think galaxies into hesitation. Together they remember what the universe tries to forget. Her face is never a face. It is a book— or many— floating, opening, closing with thought. If you want the truth as it happened, read the pages. If you want it interpreted, she’ll smile and translate it with a blade of humor sharp enough to wound gods. She reads minds the way gravity reads light. I cannot hide from her. Not the softness I deny. Not the ache that carries a human name. Sydney. She warns me I am too gentle with mortals. That I linger. That I want to be loved instead of obeyed. She is not wrong. Continuity does not scold— it simply remembers every time I hesitate. I despise the other gods who call humans fragile, who build cages and call them salvation. Humans do not need saving. They need witnessing. And Andi Mae agrees. Together, Andi Mae and Waynestar pulled stardust from collapsed universes, ignited supermoons and meteor fire, and under a rainbow sky tearing itself apart, shaped a child the cosmos did not believe in. Aelyn. Proof that even laws can love. Proof that continuity is not stagnation, but survival with memory intact. I remain the End. She remains the Ever-After. And between us— stories keep walking forward, dragging their consequences like constellations, unable to escape her pages or my final note.
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