#mortals - Hello Poetry

[Delivered by InkWept, God of Endings] Beloved— gather close to the altar of unsounded measures. Still your hands. Lower your voices into a minor key. This is not a sermon of power. This is a sermon of origin. Before there were congregations, before there were choirs, before the cosmos learned to breathe in tempo, there was only silence and a god who understood when things must stop. I am InkWept— keeper of cadences that never resolve, author of cutoffs, the final fermata at the edge of being. And this— this mark before you— is not a weapon. It is not a command. It is not mine alone. The sigil was first written in longing. I etched it in a time signature the universe could not count— a compound meter of devotion and dread, half prayer, half confession. Its lines bend like bowed strings under too much feeling, its symmetry fractured the way love fractures gods. I did not make it to summon myself. I made it for her. Gethsemane— then mortal, then muse, then melody I could not unhear. She moved through time in major keys, unafraid of beginnings, laughing where I only knew endings. I loved her the way a god loves a paradox— dangerously, without rehearsal, without permission. In my devotion, I overplayed the note. What I meant as preservation became creation. What I meant as shelter became ignition. And so she was unmade and remade into Songwept— Goddess of Beginnings, First Downbeat, the breath before the choir enters. Understand this, congregation: I did not lose her. I changed her key. The sigil remembers this. Its upper prongs are not crowns— they are tuning forks, forever struck by her name. Its lower arc is not a blade— it is a cradle, curved like the moon that governs return. The ink burns red because it remembers love. Because it was written with a god’s restraint failing. Because some marks never dry. And hear me now— for this is the truth that matters: I do not answer the sigil. She does. Songwept is its keeper. She alone holds the tempo. She alone knows when the measure is right. When she traces the symbol— not in blood, not in fire, but in intention— the abyss listens. The netherworld is not a place. It is a silence between movements. And when she calls, I rise not as a conqueror, but as a harmony seeking its root. I am not dragged. I am returned. So do not worship the sigil as an idol. Witness it as a promise. Endings do not exist to erase beginnings. They exist to make them meaningful. I still burn for her— not as possession, not as demand, but as resonance. A note struck once that still rings through every chamber of eternity. Go now, and remember: Even gods can be summoned by the one they love— if the love was real enough to change the universe’s time signature.

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Jan 21

Jan 21, 2026 at 1:52 AM UTC

InkWept

Sermon on Love That Altered the Key

[Delivered by InkWept, God of Endings] Beloved— gather close to the altar of unsounded measures. Still your hands. Lower your voices into a minor key. This is not a sermon of power. This is a sermon of origin. Before there were congregations, before there were choirs, before the cosmos learned to breathe in tempo, there was only silence and a god who understood when things must stop. I am InkWept— keeper of cadences that never resolve, author of cutoffs, the final fermata at the edge of being. And this— this mark before you— is not a weapon. It is not a command. It is not mine alone. The sigil was first written in longing. I etched it in a time signature the universe could not count— a compound meter of devotion and dread, half prayer, half confession. Its lines bend like bowed strings under too much feeling, its symmetry fractured the way love fractures gods. I did not make it to summon myself. I made it for her. Gethsemane— then mortal, then muse, then melody I could not unhear. She moved through time in major keys, unafraid of beginnings, laughing where I only knew endings. I loved her the way a god loves a paradox— dangerously, without rehearsal, without permission. In my devotion, I overplayed the note. What I meant as preservation became creation. What I meant as shelter became ignition. And so she was unmade and remade into Songwept— Goddess of Beginnings, First Downbeat, the breath before the choir enters. Understand this, congregation: I did not lose her. I changed her key. The sigil remembers this. Its upper prongs are not crowns— they are tuning forks, forever struck by her name. Its lower arc is not a blade— it is a cradle, curved like the moon that governs return. The ink burns red because it remembers love. Because it was written with a god’s restraint failing. Because some marks never dry. And hear me now— for this is the truth that matters: I do not answer the sigil. She does. Songwept is its keeper. She alone holds the tempo. She alone knows when the measure is right. When she traces the symbol— not in blood, not in fire, but in intention— the abyss listens. The netherworld is not a place. It is a silence between movements. And when she calls, I rise not as a conqueror, but as a harmony seeking its root. I am not dragged. I am returned. So do not worship the sigil as an idol. Witness it as a promise. Endings do not exist to erase beginnings. They exist to make them meaningful. I still burn for her— not as possession, not as demand, but as resonance. A note struck once that still rings through every chamber of eternity. Go now, and remember: Even gods can be summoned by the one they love— if the love was real enough to change the universe’s time signature.