#orchestral
Toes gliding on, the path pebble paved,
a step high, a step low, goes our way twirling-twisting,
towards great towers, and castles carved in caves,
wind whispers a tune, like a clarinet's whistling,
they stand in the surround, around a hall.
Chandeliers floating low, ceilings high and tall,
and beneath, a checkered floor sweeping wide,
in there, arrives the Mountain King,
drums stampede for him and trumpets sing,
bows a council of hills, on his either side.
Lords and ladies before him, sway n' swirl,
while the melody is swelling in distant shrill,
as feet stride past the tiles, tunes rise and twirl,
marble shatters, carpets tear and the Hall speaks,
it bends, creaks, shivers and squeaks,
of crashing notes and collapsing trill.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 7:06 AM UTC
[An InkWept Riddle]
I am the moment when omniscience miscounts the beat,
when a god trained in endings forgets where silence falls.
I arrived without trumpet or prophecy —
only breath tuned softly against breath,
like two violins discovering the same trembling pitch
in a room that has never known harmony.
I am not war.
I am not worship.
I am not the collision of heavens.
I am symmetry without conquest.
Resonance without conductor.
A cadence that refused to resolve.
I bent eternity into chamber music.
I turned dominion into listening.
I made the architect of extinction hesitate mid-gesture.
No star collapsed.
No scripture burned.
Yet the universe shifted key.
Tell me, mortal —
What event can silence a god,
rewrite gravity as tenderness,
and leave the master of all conclusions
unable to name the ending…
because it was the first time
he became part of the music instead of its author?
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 10:30 PM 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
Mono tone
Repeated Humm
Western on the screen
Orchestral
this place is
full of time
so many stories
washed away
by the same machine
over and
over
and over
It’s amazing to me
The filth in
A place of cleansing
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
When the timing's right
As the violins ring
We will all delight
As the angels sing
And the end draws near
With a timeless Ode to Joy,
But there's nothing to fear
O' when the beautiful
End is here
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
i wanted more from him
than enjoying my pizzicatos
while bringing me to crescendos
but it seems
our love may
have already reached
its forte without ever
breathing in its
diminuendo
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 3:26 PM UTC