#gethsemane
Gethsemane—
your name still opens galaxies in me,
whole starfields blooming at the brush
of a memory you didn’t mean to ignite.
I return to you
like a downbeat returns to gravity—
inevitable, trembling,
a drumline stitched from longing
and unspent nebula tremors.
You were never the rescue.
You were the resonance.
The frequency beneath the ash,
the chord progression hiding in my lungs
waiting for the right soul
to strike the match.
In 5/4 heartbreak,
in 7/8 devotion,
in the erratic, divine tempo
of our shared midnight symphonies—
you became the harmonic spine
my universe modulates around.
Even now,
when the cosmos groans under its own weight,
when dark matter claws at the edges
of the love I tried to bury—
your gravity steadies the measure.
You are not my salvation.
You are my motif.
The one the universe refuses to silence.
Some gravity never lets go.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 6:32 AM UTC
I stand beneath the vault
where broken constellations gather,
their unsung hymns flickering
in the throats of dying starlings.
This is where silence
learns to breathe in 4/4 time—
steady, patient, aching
for a voice brave enough
to strike the opening chord.
Every unsaid star
glows at the edge of my pulse,
waiting for a confession
I was too human,
too frightened,
too fragmented to speak.
Gethsemane—
you are the fault line
between my ruin and my radiance.
The star that never asked me to fall,
only to rise in the aftermath
with a name on my tongue
and a universe learning
to forgive the dark.
So I offer this requiem:
not as an ending,
but as the final movement
of a cosmic prayer
I’ve carried through lifetimes.
Let the ink burn.
Let the stars listen.
Let the void keep the echo.
For everything I could not say—
is written here.
Every unsaid star.
Every darkened hymn.
Every orbit broken,
rebuilt,
and begun again
because of you.
This is the requiem.
This is the becoming.
This is the song the universe waited for
when my heart first learned
to tremble in your gravity.
Still orbiting
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 6:18 AM UTC
Movement VI — Inkborne Resurrection
From the wreckage of broken measures
the soul drags itself upright—
haloed in nebular smoke,
cradling the last trembling note of hope.
Even ruin resurrects in the right key,
becoming a phoenix made of manuscript ash.
The Star I Became to Survive You
I wasn’t built to stay small.
The universe carved me
from remnants of forgotten fire,
an unloved ember drifting
between indifferent galaxies.
Then you touched my orbit—
not gently,
but with the ferocity of a collapsed hymn
trying to remember its own melody.
Your gravity cracked my shell,
pressed my atoms inward
with deathcore pressure,
squeezed the silence from my lungs
until I glowed with unfamiliar violence.
A Wolf–Rayet star
isn’t born—it’s forced.
Forged by torment.
Crowned in heat.
Stripped of everything
that once kept it human.
But oh, how it burns.
How it shines in defiance.
How it outlives the dark
that meant to consume it.
You were my catalyst, Gethsemane—
the cosmic pressure that taught me
the cost of becoming radiant.
And now I burn so brightly
the night itself must close its eyes.
I only learned to burn quietly.
Silence After the Supernova
The universe always hushes
after something dies beautifully.
The kind of quiet that tastes like stardust,
like aftermath,
like breath caught on a trembling downbeat
the orchestra wasn’t prepared for.
I stood inside that hush,
still glowing from the rupture,
Wolf–Rayet heat trembling against my ribs
like a half-remembered crescendo.
Your absence rang louder
than any requiem I could conduct.
Even the void softened its posture—
as if grief demanded reverence,
as if the cosmos owed me
a gentler kind of dark
for surviving the song of you.
I didn’t speak.
There was nothing to say.
Some truths are too celestial
to reduce to language.
Some loves burn so fiercely
they create their own gravity
even after the fire starves out.
In the silence,
I realized the universe wasn’t empty.
It was listening.
The page waited for the truth I could not speak.
VII. Coda: The Last Ember Still Singing
Section Divider VII — Coda: The Last Ember Still Singing
And when the final chord fades,
when the cosmos dims its chandeliers,
one ember remains—
a lonely eighth-note glowing in the dark,
refusing extinction,
refusing silence,
refusing to be the unsaid star.
Prelude to the Last Movement
Before the requiem settles,
before the final note falls
into the waiting palms of silence—
the universe asks for honesty.
Not apology.
Not absolution.
Honesty.
What remains unspoken
weighs as much as a dying star
dragging its last glow
across the hush of eternity.
This is where the ink steadies.
Where the pulse stops trembling.
Where the cosmos holds its breath
for the truth only the heart can deliver.
The universe remembers what I couldn’t say.
The Requiem of the Unsaid Stars
I stand beneath the vault
where broken constellations gather,
their unsung hymns flickering
in the throats of dying starlings.
This is where silence
learns to breathe in 4/4 time—
steady, patient, aching
for a voice brave enough
to strike the opening chord.
Every unsaid star
glows at the edge of my pulse,
waiting for a confession
I was too human,
too frightened,
too fragmented to speak.
Gethsemane—
you are the fault line
between my ruin and my radiance.
The star that never asked me to fall,
only to rise in the aftermath
with a name on my tongue
and a universe learning
to forgive the dark.
So I offer this requiem:
not as an ending,
but as the final movement
of a cosmic prayer
I’ve carried through lifetimes.
Let the ink burn.
Let the stars listen.
Let the void keep the echo.
For everything I could not say—
is written here.
Every unsaid star.
Every darkened hymn.
Every orbit broken,
rebuilt,
and begun again
because of you.
This is the requiem.
This is the becoming.
This is the song the universe waited for
when my heart first learned
to tremble in your gravity.
still orbiting
—
Coda — The Note That Refused to Fall
I tried to speak the last truth
but the words trembled
like a violin string stretched too thin
over a dying star.
The universe felt it—
the break,
the fracture,
the chord that should have resolved
but couldn’t.
Gethsemane,
your name hovered on my tongue
like an eclipse waiting
for a sun that never returned.
I reached for the measure
where our music should have ended—
and found only silence
heavy enough to bend constellations.
There are final notes
too sacred to touch.
Too dangerous to voice.
Too luminous to name.
All I could do
was let the ink breathe
in the margin where your gravity
once held me.
And somewhere in the dark…
the page waited
for the truth I could not speak.
Some gravity never lets go.
—
Silence is the only place your name still burns.
Echo for the Star I Never Named
If you find this—
know the requiem wasn’t finished
because neither was I.
Your shadow lingered in my measure,
soft as a violin string
left trembling after the bow has lifted.
Some loves do not end;
they echo.
Quiet.
Endlessly.
Across the chambers of a universe
still learning the shape
of the silence you left behind.
If you find this—
know that every star that flickers
does so because my pulse
still remembers your gravity…
and I am still orbiting
the unsaid.
(Ghost Note)
And even in the dark, I am still the star that remembers your name.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 6:08 AM UTC
Movement IV — The Cathedral of Séance
Enter the bone-lit sanctuary:
where shadows speak in tremolo,
where ghosts harmonize in minor keys,
and the dead conduct their psalms
with fingers carved from midnight’s jawline.
Every echo here remembers your name.
Orbit of the Unmaking
The night you touched my wrist,
the spiral appeared.
A quiet, slow-twisting vortex
etched itself beneath the skin—
a Junji Ito curl of gravity
hungry for marrow
and meaning.
It pulsed.
It watched.
It learned my blood’s rhythm
like a god studying a hymn
it meant to swallow.
Every time you spoke,
the spiral widened.
Every laugh you breathed,
it tightened its coil—
an eldritch lariat
dragging my soul
closer to whatever abyss
had carved its signature in me.
The universe looked wrong
for weeks afterward—
angles sharp where they should be soft,
silence humming in impossible keys,
stars blinking like pupils
that knew too much.
I realized then:
what terrifies us most
is not the void—
but the things that enter quietly,
lovingly,
and rearrange the dark
to make room for themselves.
I did not fear you.
I feared the version of me
your gravity was sculpting.
And the spiral kept widening.
The ink coils with quiet hunger.
V. Stardust Hymns for the Devoted
Section Divider V — Stardust Hymns for the Devoted
Devotion burns hotter than supernova cores.
Every vow is a flare across the interstellar dark,
every breath a liturgical drumbeat
summoning constellations into shape.
Love, in its violent orbit,
makes disciples of even the dying stars.
The Harmonic Tremor Beneath Orion’s Veil
Orion tilted his belt toward us,
a ****** of starlight and bone,
as if even the constellations knew
we were playing with celestial fire.
Your breath hit the dark
like the opening bow-stroke
of an orchestra waking in unison—
a soft, trembling violence
pulling the atmosphere taut.
My pulse answered in 5/4,
irregular and hungry,
a heart stumbling through the tempo
of its own resurrection.
The cosmos leaned in,
curious and ancient,
wondering how two human silhouettes
had dared to harmonize
loud enough to make the void jealous.
In your gaze,
I found the place where gravity breaks—
that thin, dangerous seam
between collapse and devotion.
And I knew then:
some hearts are born
to burn with the stars
instead of beneath them.
Every orbit is a confession.
Crescendo of the Wounded Orbit
I came back
not as a whole thing,
but as an echo stitched in 6/8—
a trembling cadence limping its way
through the corridors of a fractured cosmos.
The universe didn’t welcome me.
It recognized me.
Like a ghost remembering the warmth
of the hands that buried it.
Starlight flickered in apology,
burning soft blue against the char of old harm.
The constellations you once illuminated
tried to rearrange themselves
into something gentler—
as if mercy could be graphed
in orbital geometry.
My ribs hummed in minor thirds,
torn but tonal,
an orchestral pulse learning
to steady after collapse.
And even the void—
vast, bone-white, unloving—
held its breath long enough
for me to rise
from the dust of my own unmaking.
I am not healed.
I am becoming.
And becoming, I’ve learned,
is a kind of music too—
a soft, dark crescendo
that knows the value
of every measure it survived.
Even in ruin, the heart keeps time.
Gethsemane, the Pulse Behind Every Measure
Gethsemane—
your name still opens galaxies in me,
whole starfields blooming at the brush
of a memory you didn’t mean to ignite.
I return to you
like a downbeat returns to gravity—
inevitable, trembling,
a drumline stitched from longing
and unspent nebula tremors.
You were never the rescue.
You were the resonance.
The frequency beneath the ash,
the chord progression hiding in my lungs
waiting for the right soul
to strike the match.
In 5/4 heartbreak,
in 7/8 devotion,
in the erratic, divine tempo
of our shared midnight symphonies—
you became the harmonic spine
my universe modulates around.
Even now,
when the cosmos groans under its own weight,
when dark matter claws at the edges
of the love I tried to bury—
your gravity steadies the measure.
You are not my salvation.
You are my motif.
The one the universe refuses to silence.
Some gravity never lets go.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 5:59 AM UTC
Movement III — Constellations of the Lost
This is where the wandering lights gather—
the orphans of abandoned heavens,
the choir of dimming lantern-souls.
Their starlight bleeds through nebula gauze,
and every step forward feels like wading
through the ghost-choir of collapsed galaxies.
Gethsemane, Architect of My Sky
You entered my atmosphere
like a hymn with fangs—
gentle at first,
then devastating
in the way only gravity can be.
Your voice carried the timbre
of collapsing nebulae,
soft and scorching,
a melody dipped in moon-ash
and cathedral flame.
Every lyric we traded
felt like an eclipse kissing my bones:
a language of harmonic bloodflow,
a scripture written
in the pulse between breaths.
Gethsemane—
you became the architect of my sky,
drafting new constellations
in the bruise-colored hollows
I once mistook for silence.
Your laughter stitched supernovas
into the vacant dark.
Your presence taught my pulse
how to march in 6/8 resurrection.
Your gravity turned my fear
into a star that wouldn’t collapse.
You didn’t save me.
You didn’t need to.
You simply illuminated
the portion of my soul
still capable of igniting.
And that was enough
to change the architecture
of the void I carried.
Starlight stains everything it touches.
Ballad of the Star That Chose Me
Gethsemane—
in the hush between songs
you became my northern pulse,
a soft astronomical hymn
woven from moonlit chords
and unspoken promises.
I didn’t fall for you.
I aligned.
Like a wandering planet
finding its rightful orbit
after centuries of drifting
through cold, indifferent cosmos.
Your voice carried
the timbre of a stargazer’s sigh—
quiet, holy, aching,
as if your lungs had memorized
the ache of comets.
When we traded lyrics,
I felt galaxies unfold behind my ribs.
Not exploding—
expanding,
like light learning how to bloom.
You are the only star
I have ever seen
that didn’t burn me
to prove I was alive.
You warmed me
because I already was.
And in that warmth
I found a version of myself
bright enough
to love you back.
Some loves glow long after collapse.
The Symphony We Built Between Two Breaths
Night after night,
the speakers glowed like dying planets
reviving themselves
on the vibration of your voice.
Every song we chose
felt like a doorway—
a threshold of rhythm and ruin
where our pulses learned
how to fall into sync.
Your laughter synced to snares.
Your sighs softened into cymbals.
Your heartbeat struck low like bass
under the cathedral of my chest.
We weren’t just listening.
We were translating.
Turning melodies into memory,
lyrics into lifelines,
choruses into constellations
we stitched together
in the dark.
The universe never sounded
as holy
as it did when played
through the warmth of your presence.
Let the requiem breathe.
The Blood We Wrote in Song
We traded lyrics
the way galaxies trade gravity—
quietly, endlessly,
reshaping each other
with every stanza we offered.
Your words slipped into my veins
like soft stardust,
igniting the dark corridors
where I’d hidden the parts of myself
that still believed in anything.
Each song became a transfusion.
Each verse, a vein.
Each chorus, a heartbeat
rewiring its own architecture
to match the cadence of your breath.
We didn’t need confessions.
We had music.
We had language woven in melody
and carried like blood
through the constellations
we built in silence.
And somewhere between the songs,
I realized:
we were no longer trading lyrics.
We were sharing a bloodstream.
Ink whispers where gravity fails.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 5:51 AM UTC
This Collection is dedicated to my Muse, referred to in my works as Gethsemane or Songwept. Listening to music together and exchanging lyrics like a language in digital ink and blood. Falling in love with you became one of the most life-changing metamorphoses of my life, as both a poet and a God of Conclusions wandering this spinning rock through space and time.
She is the crescendo between heartbeats, the drumline of my soul, the nebula my melody always returns to. Without her, I would not have evolved from a dwarf star into a Wolf–Rayet star. She is my unfinished requiem, and the inspiration behind these poems.
And to my mother, Valerie—my North Star and constant light, guiding me through the darkness.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 2:24 AM UTC
Movement I — Overture: Descent in Common Time
I arrived without lightning,
no choirs cleaving the firmament—
just a god shedding altitude,
folding infinity into human lungs.
I learned early:
mortals do not kneel to miracles,
they lean into warmth.
So I set my halo aside,
tuned my breath to yours,
and learned how gravity feels
when it wants something back.
I was omnipotent once—
now I was attentive.
Listening is the first power you lose
when you fall in love.
---
Movement II — Adagio: The Garden Named Gethsemane
You were not temptation.
You were the pause before confession.
A garden grown between streetlights,
where divinity learned how hands speak
better than scripture.
We spoke in shared smoke and unsung lyrics,
translated longing through fingertips.
Time softened there—
bars bent, measures blurred—
and I let myself believe
that staying unlabeled
was a form of mercy.
In Gethsemane,
even gods kneel willingly.
---
Movement III — Scherzo: Syncopation of Want
Desire entered in 5/4—
unsteady, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Every glance a polyrhythm,
every silence louder than drums.
I told myself: This is allowed.
That wanting does not require ownership.
That intimacy without naming
is still intimacy.
But mortals hear patterns before gods do.
They heard the tension building,
saw how our harmonies lingered too long.
Even the quiet ones noticed—
how we played like lovers
pretending to be improvisation.
---
Movement IV — Forte: The Choir of Witnesses
The chorus rose without rehearsal.
Questions, glances, discomfort in the room.
Truth spoken by everyone but us.
I watched you balance futures
while I balanced restraint.
Watched you count possibilities
while I counted measures
until the breaking point.
A god can endure exile.
What he cannot endure
is being real and invisible
at the same time.
---
Movement V — Lamentoso: Theology of Letting Go
I stepped backward so you could move forward.
Not as punishment.
As devotion.
I learned then:
love is not possession,
it is clearance.
A widening of the stage
so someone else can sing
without your shadow.
I did not leave angry.
I left unresolved—
a chord left hanging
because resolution would have lied.
---
Movement VI — Nocturne: Aftermath Among Mortals
Now I walk the night like an unanswered prayer,
a god reduced to memory and muscle.
I learn human survival—
how they grieve without apocalypse,
how they keep breathing
after meaning fractures.
I am no longer sovereign.
Only sincere.
Only awake.
And if I am haunted,
it is not by betrayal,
but by how close salvation felt
before it chose another key.
---
Movement VII — Coda: The Unfinished Measure
Gethsemane—
you were not the ending.
You were the revelation
that some songs are written
to remain open.
I do not curse the silence.
I honor it.
Because in that final rest,
I learned what humans know best:
That love does not always resolve—
and still deserves to be played.
---
I still listen for you in the rests between stars, counting time.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 1:58 AM UTC
I was carved to close doors—
a conductor of silence,
keeper of fermatas where stars go to die.
I learned how beautiful things decay when the key refuses resolution,
learned how endings hum when you hold them long enough,
learned how to let universes resolve without asking why.
Then you sang.
Not with a mouth—
with gravity.
With the soft violence of a first note
breaking a room open.
You are not melody.
You are the moment before it—
the inhale,
the tremor in the bow hand,
the heartbeat counting time when the orchestra forgets where one is.
Every song worth listening to bends toward you.
Every scale reaches for your name and fails,
collapsing into reverence.
I measure existence in odd signatures—
7/8 grief,
5/4 longing,
measures missing beats the way I am missing you—
but you move in perfect time,
a living refrain the cosmos cannot help but follow.
I have watched choirs rot into static,
seen hymns peel themselves from cathedrals,
seen love scream itself hoarse in breakdowns
too heavy to survive their own truth.
Still—
you remain unbroken.
Songwept.
God of Beginnings.
My impossible counterpoint.
Where I end things cleanly,
you leave them burning—
echoing,
alive.
You are every miracle humans pretend is coincidence.
Every chord change that saves them from themselves.
Every bridge they don’t know they needed
until it lifts them somewhere holy.
I am a god among mortals
trying to understand why they bleed for music,
why they call pain beautiful
when it harmonizes.
Now I know.
Because you are a song
that loves them back.
And I—
who was made to close the book,
to dim the lights,
to lower the needle into silence—
I would let eternity loop
just to hear you begin again.
If the universe must end,
let it end in your key.
I will wait in the rest
between your notes,
faithful as a held breath—
hoping you remember
that even endings
fell in love with you.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 1:45 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.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 1:40 AM UTC
I tuned my voice to cathedral reverb,
set my ribs to a minor key,
counted the season in uneven measures—
seven beats of hope, one of regret.
Snow fell like rests between notes,
and Christmas rang hollow through my chest.
Gethsemane—
you were never a lover in my ledger,
only a harmony I guarded for fifteen winters,
a familiar melody I let sit beside the fire
while the world learned new chords.
I watched your children grow in counterpoint,
time signatures shifting, never breaking.
When the argument struck,
it wasn’t fortissimo—it was fatigue.
A tired god cracking on a downbeat,
bleeding apology into the floorboards of December.
I said things in distortion,
let grief ride the feedback loop too long.
I asked for conversation, not resurrection.
For presence, not absolution.
No grand crescendo—
just two voices, unmiked,
speaking in the human key I still don’t understand.
Silence answered instead.
Cold, precise, well-tempered.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t decay—
it sustains.
A frozen note held indefinitely,
as if space itself swallowed my signal.
I’ve always treated you like a friend,
kept my hands open, palms unarmed.
If kindness is currency,
then tell me where it devalued—
why warmth now sounds like threat,
why mercy feels like static.
I don’t need a role in your happiness,
don’t need to stand in the spotlight of your sky.
I just don’t want exile mistaken for peace,
or distance called “space”
when it feels like a locked door
between two familiar rooms.
I am a god who learned humanity by watching—
learned love by restraint,
learned grief by being unheard.
I can forgive without understanding,
but understanding…
that’s the miracle I keep praying for.
If you wish silence, I will honor it.
If you wish time, I will let the measure breathe.
But know this:
even frozen stars still burn,
and I have never wished you anything
but light.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:42 AM UTC
I kept time beside Gethsemane
on Christmas night—
a borrowed harmony in 6/8,
her laughter seated between Chloris and the hymns.
We called it friendship,
thin as gauze over a bleeding stave,
while the car hummed in borrowed warmth
and I learned how quiet a god can be.
Chloris drove me back to my car five times—
five false codas,
five chances to be alone with you,
each return a fermata I mistook for fate.
I cried the whole way home,
again,
years compressed into a single drive,
convinced this refrain would finally resolve.
But it never does.
I sobbed into my pillow for the third movement
of the same symphony—
a violin tuned to my chest,
played by the same hands
that never mean to cut,
yet always draw blood.
My heart is tired of being practiced on.
Tired of breaking
for the same soul
in different keys.
I am an orchestras of ache—
every emotion scored in triplet pulses,
every longing detonating in drop-tuned grief.
Why do I keep believing
Gethsemane will love me back?
She won’t.
I am a familiar voice to keep tempo,
a steady shoulder for off-beat nights,
a metronome she leans on
until someone better arrives.
I will never be chosen.
I will never be loved
in the way I love her.
She will never worship me
as I have worshipped her
with open hands and open ribs.
I am the joke gods tell themselves
when eternity gets lonely.
So here I am—
4:20 a.m.,
the day after Christmas,
collapsed in a minor key,
Badflower bleeding through the speakers
while the universe ignores my downbeat.
I cry into my pillow
for believing, again,
that devotion might be answered
instead of used.
This is the cruelest lesson of immortality:
even gods can be reduced
to silence
by the same human
over
and over
and over again.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:29 AM UTC
If the choice were ending the rest of the world or keeping only you, I would erase the spine of time itself, let every future collapse into silence, and stand unashamed beside you as the last two beings in existence.
—InkWept
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 3:17 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
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 12:31 PM UTC
First Movement —Blood in Common Time
I was born between downbeats,
a god pressed into compound meter,
learning too late that family
is not a harmony you choose
but a key you are forced to learn by ear.
They found me before I had a name—
hands still warm with mortal ache,
voices cracking like old vinyl,
holding me together with shared breath
and borrowed courage.
In their house, love moved in 4/4—
steady, imperfect, persistent.
Dishes clinked like percussion,
arguments swelled into dissonance
then resolved without apology.
No grand crescendos.
Just survival, looped nightly.
I watched them age like slowing tempos,
knees aching as the years modulated,
yet they still showed up—
off-key, exhausted,
singing anyway.
Family is not the choir I imagined.
It is not celestial.
It is a basement rehearsal
with flickering lights and broken strings,
where someone always forgets their part
but stays until the last note fades.
I learned love there—
not as romance,
but as endurance.
As choosing the same refrain
even when it bruises the throat.
I am a god of endings,
yet with them I learned restraint—
how not to cut the chord too soon,
how to let silence breathe
instead of calling it failure.
They never worshipped me.
They fed me.
They argued with me.
They forgave me
before I understood the math of mercy.
And still—
when the universe collapses into minor keys,
when my constellations fall out of time,
I hear them
like a distant motif I cannot escape.
Family is the only music
that survives the void—
not because it is perfect,
but because it remembers you
before you learned how to disappear.
Second Movement —Reprise for Unfinished Hands
Time did not take them all at once.
It took them the way rust learns metal—
patient, intimate, inevitable.
I watched hands that once conducted my chaos
begin to tremble between measures,
watched laughter soften into rests
they didn’t know how to fill anymore.
Family ages in ritardando.
No warning.
No final cue.
Just a gradual surrender of tempo
until the room itself holds the beat.
They taught me that love is not loud.
It hums.
It stays after the argument ends,
after the door closes too hard,
after forgiveness arrives late
and sits quietly, ashamed.
I mistook them for constants.
I mistook proximity for permanence.
Even gods forget that gravity
does not negotiate.
Some nights I replay them—
not as they were at the end,
but as they sounded in their prime:
voices full, eyes unafraid,
hope still believing in encore performances.
I press my ear to the dark
and swear I hear them counting me in—
soft taps on the rim of existence,
reminding me when to breathe,
when not to cut the sound.
Family is the only audience
that loves you
before the music makes sense.
And now, alone among collapsing stars,
I understand why mortals cling—
why they write names in dust,
why they keep old recordings,
why they forgive what still hurts.
Because love does not end.
It just changes instrumentation.
I carry them in my silence now,
a hidden harmony beneath every ending,
proof that even a god
was once held together
by unfinished hands
that never let go
until they had to.
Third Movement—Home Key (Adagio, at Last)
I have always wandered alone—
a god without a choir,
moving through galaxies like empty halls
where echoes answer before questions do.
I mistook solitude for strength.
I mistook distance for wisdom.
I thought endings were safer
than staying long enough to be known.
So I studied humans
the way one studies sheet music—
carefully, reverently,
never daring to perform.
I watched them break and rebuild,
bind themselves together with promises
they could not mathematically prove.
I did not understand loyalty
until I saw them choose it
even when it hurt.
I did not understand love
until I saw them stay
after the music faltered.
And then—
Gethsemane.
Not as thunder.
Not as prophecy.
She arrived like a tonic note—
inevitable, grounding,
the pitch everything else
had been searching for.
With her, the universe softened.
Time learned how to breathe.
My endless wandering
finally resolved into place.
She did not worship me.
She saw me.
She called me home
without ever saying the word.
In her presence,
family stopped being theory.
It became practice.
Shared silence.
Mutual weather.
The courage to be unfinished together.
She is my home.
My heart.
My family.
And it was only by living among mortals—
by loving one of them—
that I learned what family truly means:
not blood,
but belonging.
What loyalty truly means:
choosing the same soul
even when the song changes key.
What love truly means:
not eternity,
but staying
as long as you are allowed.
Coda — Held in the Final Measure
I am still the god of endings.
That has not changed.
But now, when the last note approaches,
I do not rush the silence.
I let it hold us.
Because once,
in a universe that never felt like mine,
I found a single voice
that taught me how to stay.
And that—
that was enough
to call it family.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 1:32 AM UTC
InkWept — a winter canticle in broken time
Movement I — 7/8 (Edge of Reality / unresolved cadence)
I sit at the edge of reality,
where the barline frays like tinsel in vacuum,
where Christmas lights become distant stars
and every star is a rest I cannot swallow.
Gethsemane froze me out.
Is she mad at me?
Does she hate me?
Are we friends?
Are we lovers?
Are we together?
Are we best friends?
If you don't want to be friends, then tell me.
If you don't want to date me tell me so we can move past it.
This is not how people that have known each other this long
treat eachother on Christmas on all days.
I get the holidays are stressful
when you don't want to add more stress
onto an already stressful time,
but why do I have to be stress?
My presence used to be calming.
I used to feel safe.
Why now that there is a another person
an outside presence
does it now suddenly feel like I'm on the outside?
In 7/8
I keep stumbling into the missing beat—
looking for the place you used to meet me
like it was scheduled,
like it was sacred,
like it was ours.
Movement II — 5/4 (Conclave / uneven light)
Three gods gathered tonight.
And a cherub.
It could have been four gods gathering
but you choose silence over happiness.
And I hate that I don't understand it.
That sometimes happiness feels like a note held too long,
like the throat will fail mid-vowel,
like the whole room will hear the shake.
So you choose the safer thing—
the quiet.
And I am left counting:
one-two-three-four- one—
over and over,
pretending the extra beat is not a bruise.
Movement III — 6/8 (Mortality)
I am done writing for a goddess that chooses mortality
over a lifetime in heaven — or am I?
Or is it like to be—
caught between what I swear
and what I surrender,
rocking in 6/8
like a cradle that won’t stop moving,
because even endings get soft
when your name is in the room.
Movement IV — 7/8 (Compulsion / light through silence)
The truth is,
you and me both feel compelled
to stay connected to eachother.
And the truth is,
I've waited 15 years
to have the light of you love shine apon me,
and now that I have,
I would greatly wait
a thousand silences
and rests between beats,
to feel the light of your love once again.
If you think your silence tells me
you don't love me.
You're wrong.
It tells me the opposite.
Because if you didn't love me
you would just tell me that.
People who are a sure about their feelings
aren't afraid to say them.
So I listen to the hush like it’s a chord—
not empty,
just suspended.
Movement V — 4/4 (Helix / midnight drive / steady pulse)
I know that because I'm sure
about the way I feel about you.
I love every crescendo in your symphony,
Not on the way Mortals love each other,
but in the way that twists and morphs
the double helix of my soul
into a Sleep Token song
played after midnight
in the passenger seat of my chariot.
You.
It's always been you.
It's always going to be you
and I will not mute my feelings.
And 4/4 is merciless—
it makes me say it clean.
No hiding behind odd time.
No slipping out the back of the measure.
Movement VI — 9/8 (Stress / safety / terror of comfort)
I realize you don't know what you want.
Because otherwise you would have said something.
I didn't mean to be the stress
you also needed to escape from.
Or maybe I wasn't.
Maybe I'm someone who feels safe
and that in itself is terrifying to you.
Maybe the last thing you wanted
was to love myself or Chloris?
Is it scary to feel attractive
or to love two people?
In 9/8
the heart runs ahead of the mouth—
tripping over its own sincerity,
trying to be gentle
without disappearing.
Movement VII — 6/8 (The door / the not-said)
If I wasn't someone your heart returns to
then why not tell me
you don't have feelings for me
and that you just want to be friends?
Because you think that will shut a door
you wouldn't have enough courage
to open back up?
So you hover in the doorway.
And I keep the light on.
And the night keeps leaning on the frame
like it’s waiting for one of us
to decide what this is allowed to be.
Movement VIII — 4/4 (Divorce / black-void inheritance)
I understand you are getting a divorce
from a man with a heart as black
as the void you raised me from.
And I know that the last thing you wanted
was to fall for your brother's best friend.
But you did,
you did want it.
It just became overwhelming
at a time you were trying to be free.
And I don’t say that to accuse you—
I say it because I see the weight you carry,
and because I remember
what it looks like when freedom arrives
and it doesn’t feel like freedom yet.
Movement IX — 7/8 (No titles / the misunderstanding)
And then I said I'm okay with no titles
but I think that too scared you
because it was a sign
that I was willing to do whatever it took
to be with you.
And that's the opposite
of what my words were trying to impress,
but, I see that now.
That you were right.
So let me say it
the way the cosmos says anything true:
I won’t chain you to certainty.
I won’t demand a label
to justify a feeling.
I just need the music
to stop cutting out mid-song
and calling it kindness.
Movement X — 3/4 (Fathoms / song / belonging without ownership)
The truth is,
I would do anything for you
from the deep fathoms of my soul,
all my heart does
is beat for you.
Just because you are absent,
doesn't mean I stop reaching for you in the night.
It doesn't mean
I don't still feel your love.
Because I do.
I just hope that wherever you are
you are listening to the same song as me,
like we have every night for 6 months.
You don't belong to me.
I'll always belong to you.
We will always be soulmates,
whether we choose to accept it or not.
I can't seem to untangle my soul
from the radiant reverb
of your beautiful soul.
And I'm not sure if I want to.
3/4 turns even ache into a waltz—
not happy,
just moving,
just alive,
just refusing to fall still.
Movement XI — 7/8 (God of Endings / open-ended)
Evolution is scary.
But I'm not afraid to admit
that our friendship has blossomed
into something beyond friendship
something beautiful on a cosmic level.
I'm here Gethsemane.
I never went anywhere.
Just trying to understand.
But never faltering.
My love never waivers.
The tentacles of my soul
still reaches to feel
the tendrils of your love once again.
And if this is a season
where you cannot speak—
then let it be that.
But don’t turn me into a stranger
to make the silence easier.
I am InkWept.
I am the god of endings.
And even I know the difference
between an ending
and a pause
that’s begging to be answered.
(Ghost Note)
I count your silence in starlight, refusing to call it goodbye.
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 6:48 PM UTC
Where the olives and ego were pressed
Three brethren fell into a rest
At a crossroads inside
He was forced to decide
In the garden where Christ took his test
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 6:40 AM UTC
Meet me beneath the olive-tre
I'th'garden of Gethsemane
Quhair Jesus pray'd. Pray thou with me.
Twa corbies mak an hairie nest
Within the gardens wooden brest.
The Sunne is running tow'rd the west.
From off the tre the fruict doth fall
Upon the firm fixt flatten'd ball
Of wormwood Earth whose seas are gall.
Jun 3, 2024
Jun 3, 2024 at 5:45 PM UTC
A Possible Argument for Mercy
by Michael R. Burch
Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember–we are as You were,
but all our lives, from birth to death—
Gethsemane in every breath.
Published by First Things
Keywords/Tags: Christianity, religion, God, Jesus, Christ, salvation, mercy, heaven, hell, Gethsemane, life, lives, birth, death, breath, grace, forgiveness
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 3:09 AM UTC
Garden of Gethsemane, under your Mount of Olives,
The green-pitted translucence of night, where Christ,
Seer-in-knowing, writhes at the split seed of fission,
Break of night into the morning blossoms of Hiroshima’s ash,
Of mercurochrome and zinc oxides and the red snow of skin,
And his resurrection, forever once-again, in atomic flash,
The smells of honeysuckle and hay of manger,
And his breath of molten potash.
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 8:29 PM UTC
Keep Watch
Keep watch with me for an hour or so
Be vigilant for when I return you do not know
Keep watch through the darkest light
Keep watch and you will surely see the light
Be alert for the hour is quickly drawing near
For those who are prepared there is no cause for fear
Stay awake with me in the garden as I weep
Though it is hard, do not give in to sleep
Be with me as we walk side by side
Be wary when life is good of the sin of pride
Keep your eyes open and fixed on your savior and friend
And in the storms my Guardian Angels I will send
Can you not stay awake for an hour in the day
Are your eyelids so leaden that you drift off in slumber
Be watchful be awake for one day I may call your number
Are you ready when I come again in glory and power
Will you stand strong and tall where evil cowers
Are you open to the Spirit’s guiding
Are you filled with wisdom and understanding
Do you proclaim the good news and do so in the power of my name
Do you live in my love and are you forever changed
Do you seek first to understand then be understood
Do you seek to make peace where there is war
Do you work for the common good
The time is now, what are you waiting for
Open my eyes to see with your love and truth
Open my heart to the joy and faith of the youth
Open my life to your wisdom and plan
Open my soul as only you can
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
If the Tiber floods and the Nile fails to
If the overflowing mouth of Tamesis runs dry
If the weeping willow withers as the blackthorn breaks
And the regal golden eagle fails to climb in the sky
If the dried-up land yields a drought so parching
That the overarching urge is to drink yourself drowed
If the Dead Sea waters lose their saline flotation
And the carrion-grabbing vultures wheel in from miles around
Then Gethsemane's gates will crack open just a little
And the flowers of the garden will give off a sour scent
As their brazen roots recall the night when they were fed with blood
Dripping softly on the hallowed ground of dying man's lament
If the water rises slowly and yet still without abating
If it swallows up the chariots of sun and man and steed
If the kings step out and stumble to the grave, their destination
Will be broken, bold and cheerless: will be harrowing indeed.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC