#ritual
Every morning, the same bench.
The same pigeons.
The same sky.
He brings bread.
They eat.
Sometimes, a woman passes.
She walks fast.
He watches her legs.
Not like that.
Just watching movement.
Remembering when he could move like that.
His wife died seven winters ago.
He still buys two tickets for the cinema.
He goes alone.
Gives the other ticket to the boy at the door.
One day, the bench will be empty.
The pigeons will wait.
The bread will not come.
But today, he sits.
The sun is warm.
A pigeon lands on his shoe.
He laughs.
Almost cries.
Both.
This is what remains, he thinks.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 12:15 PM UTC
You haunt my veins like a cold, black star,
dragging every buried impulse
into the crush of your gravity.
Your mark burns beneath my ribs,
a fever that rewrote my pulse
the moment you stepped into my night.
Come to me in the violet hush,
velvet falling from naked shoulders,
your silhouette rising like a myth reborn.
I want the visceral shock of your skin,
heat gathering so fast and sharp
the shadows lean in to witness.
Let the candles tremble as you straddle the space,
the heavy, rhythmic grind of your hips
turning the sacred quiet into a gasp.
Your friction strikes through bone,
slick and possessive in the candlelight,
a dark liturgy of sweat and bared teeth.
I am buried deep in the wreck of you,
feeling the clench and the velvet pull
spoken in the space between heartbeats.
If I break, let it be in your hands—
falling into the wet, into the pull,
into the truth only the weight of you
has ever been able to name.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 12:40 AM UTC
Dark magic shadow queen,
You’ve set a desire thick and heavy in me—
A slow poison, sweet as smoke,
Curling through every dream and nightmare.
If I bleed, I am bleeding you;
Your shadow is mixed into my pulse,
Your name is stitched into the dark behind my ribs.
And now, I am done with the haunting.
I need you close—not as a promise, but as a force.
I want you stripped of velvet in the cathedral’s bruised light,
A silhouette carved from dusk and unholy intention.
I want to feel the fire I’ve longed for,
Standing close enough that your heat
Finally rewrites the shape of my restraint.
You descend like a sovereign claiming her altar,
A naked, obsidian shock that strikes through bone.
I want the visceral slide of you, wet and slow,
As you straddle the space where my pulse betrays me.
I want to feel the heavy, rhythmic grind of your hips into mine,
A slow-burn friction that turns the cold stone into a furnace
As you sink down, taking all of me into your dark.
No more whispers. No rituals half-spoken.
Just the steady, punishing cadence of our bodies,
The slick of our sweat gluing chest to chest.
I am buried deep in the wreck of your addiction,
Feeling the possessive clench of your heat
As it tightens around me, demanding my total surrender.
Your back arches into the candlelight,
Your teeth bared as you map the depth of this sin.
This is the hunger that knows my name better than I do—
The kind that brands the soul, that leaves the taste
Of salt and copper on the breath.
Sweat becomes scripture as we move,
A frantic, fluid liturgy written in the slick of skin.
I want to feel the sharp catch of your nails in my shoulders
As you drive the rhythm harder, faster,
Until the "holy" is scorched away by the heat of the flesh.
Move with the dark. Let the incense choke the air.
Let the cathedral watch as we turn its silence
Into a scream of recognition,
A breath-shaking ritual of bone and wet, heavy heat.
So if I fall, let it be into you—
Into the dark, into the hunger,
Into the place where your shadow finally meets my hands,
And we drown in the ritual
I was never meant to survive.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 12:02 AM UTC
Immortal touches, fervently branding me,
possessed eyes cast the malison upon us,
a quiet slip into steaming waters—
rinses me clean, binds my soul.
Scourged breaths, seeding taint within—
a kiss beneath the yew, soothing whispers,
chanting the curse unto my lips,
drowning my vexed heart in your remedy.
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 6:47 AM UTC
We celebrate the end
With school and the teachers
we look into the future
bind bandages of best
wishes on the wounds
of friendships
promise not to scratch
We leave with flowers
and will miss each other
We celebrate the end
Bye, colleagues, here's on your
health and happiness!
We talk and laugh
as always, as if
it isn't really
the last time
We leave with flowers
and will miss each other
We celebrate the end
The house is vacated, tea
with the neighbours, a long time
we just watch the tree
in our garden, growing
in the light, the growing
towards the sun
We leave with flowers
and will miss each other
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 3:46 AM UTC
The lights go out as we lie on the stage floor.
Everything enters the dark as walls fade.
And the beat breaks the silence with a bang.
Moving closer to me in a slithering crawl.
Hands on an excursion of my body.
Slowly climbing mountains as we merge.
I let his hunger for more claim me.
He devours me one kiss at a time.
Writhing with my arms above.
Stealing my breaths like low-hung fruit.
Something calls for him as he pauses.
He marks my lips one last time,
before rising to join the melody.
I sit with the silence in my chest
while quietly watching him release
into the dancing delirium of his mind.
Gravitated beats bind me to him,
elevates me to my toes.
Approaching with poised steps.
Frail fingertips slipping his shoulder.
Whispering possessed thoughts.
Craving eyes draw us closer.
Devoted tongue scouring his skin,
chanting rituals in offering.
He pulls me in tighter,
my soul sets free.
Drowning to the beat,
bodies speak.
Two flames—
flickering in the dark.
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 4:49 AM UTC
Solemn, the people walked.
They wore their finest garments,
but they didn't seem to have fun—
no, they looked serious, almost downcast.
They arrived at an old, stone building,
and they entered.
There, their voices united
in sacred prayer, hands up high
and a holy melody rose:
"Our father in Heaven,
hallowed be your name"
And so they went on, singing and praying,
and, after every prayer, a single word:
"Amen"
And then, the final one—
heavier, a bit louder, seemingly relieving.
When they went out, they all stopped
and looked, horrified, at one tree's top.
They did some gesture with their hands,
and they walked home.
A loud noise rose from the tree,
an offended caw, claiming dignity:
"CAW!"
Then, the Raven flew.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 9:48 AM UTC
they pluck forbidden apples
they turn them to dust
scratching the initials of hated beings with their claws
they chant dragging corpses from the ground
the rumbling of feet
fire smothering every uninvited soul
a ritual purifying cursed hands
throats torn apart by starving demons
laughter turning into a scream
hands full of earth tracing circles
a dance that is a prayer
sisters bound by a blood pact
united by the whispers of others
their white robes fluttering above the bonfire
mist enveloping their released bodies
penetrating every corner of the soul
forest creatures surrounding them with their breath
uttering their names in an ancient tongue
names that are a curse
a mother sealed in the wind
creating every sin
every sister
giving birth to them amid the flames
lifting them from the earth in the moonlight
drinking the blood dripping from the vulture’s beak
awakening when the night is flooded with ****** light
the night when the rest surrender their souls to the fire
the night that is the beginning of the end
the bloodthirsty howl of witches at midnight
Mar 22
Mar 22, 2026 at 4:28 PM UTC
So the way clarity functions
is that you need to leave your shell,
put in your perspective
the truth your soul held,
which was that any identity
that you may or may not have
is constructed from the remnant and debris
of fossilized traditions and institutions of greed.
Let go of everything, they say.
Let go of everything and give in to the truth.
But you lose yourself as a part of the journey,
and that's way too steep of a price due.
I mean, what am I to do, fulfilled
yet empty, void of all individuality,
just jaded and immersed
in a mist of blissful agony,
holding on to a false sense of reprieve
that may escape me the moment
I stop any of these rituals I practice daily,
and I see how fragile this really is.
Maybe the key to this locked safe
is tucked away somewhere else.
Maybe there is a way for me to find an answer
without saying yes to every doctor
with medicine in hand,
diagnosing me as sick.
Maybe the answer lies in accepting my truth,
that I'm climbing a rose stem,
and I should stop ruminating over every *****
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 7:12 AM UTC
They walked us down through cottonwoods
the leaves rattled like small bones.
Mud ****** at our boots.
The river smelled of salmon blood and wet iron.
“This is your turn,” they said.
“Your turn to weave.”
They sat us along the bank
knees in the cold silt
while the elders pulled story from their mouths
hand over hand
silver filament
bright as fish scales in lantern light.
I understood.
Grandmother lived in those branches.
You could feel her listening.
The threads changed color as they spoke.
Storm-dark pewter
like the river before rain.
Then thin as spider silk
when someone whispered a name
too sacred to hold long in daylight.
“Now you.”
I shut my eyes hard
mosquitoes whining near my ears
and prayed to whatever lived in water
the quiet old saints who ride the backs of salmon.
Then suddenly
a net of words
shivered into my hands.
Wet rope smell.
Knots tight as knuckles.
Moonlight caught in every strand.
“This one is yours,” they told me.
“Now cast it.”
So I stood there
a skinny girl in borrowed boots
and threw that net
into the black breathing river.
Again.
Again.
Months went by like that.
Fingers raw from knotting stories.
Rope burns in my palms.
The net coming back empty
silver dulling toward gray
like old jewelry buried in river sand.
Years passed.
The river widened.
I forgot the girl on the bank.
Then one night
my line ****** hard in the dark.
rope heavy with distance
and saw it threading
through my own mesh
gold.
Not a glimmer
not a trick of light.
Your net had crossed mine
somewhere far out
where the current runs thick with shadow.
Gold through silver.
Silver through gold.
The ropes crossing so often
it became impossible
to see where one ended.
Some nights the river carried a sweetness
ferment rising from the reeds
thick enough to make the lantern flames dance.
Some nights the current snapped and lunged
dragging the mesh sideways
until the rope burned my palms raw again
Still the nets tangled deeper
dragging strange glitter from the dark water
stories bright as coins
others sharp as broken glass.
From the shore
if grandmother had been watching
she would only nod
and keep weaving.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 5:08 PM UTC
She softly intones the sacred words
Hunger-sharpened eyes appraising
Her fattened sunset-ritual sacrifice
Promising healing in long tradition
Of all obsidian-bladed priestesses
Wrist-deep in my chest to remove
All fear and fervor and to reassure
That the sun will never again falter
Beaded blouse and quetzal headdress
Making mockery of my slovenly devotion
Dying light glinting on red-painted skin
Soot-smeared hair flying in holy ecstasy
She dances barefoot in my lifeblood
The only worship I am worthy to offer
Mar 6
Mar 6, 2026 at 9:45 AM UTC
****** hush tracing skin in shadows,
sound the depth worthy of our desires.
Pass these sinful wishes upon me—
dive into inflamed seas, name me by it.
Make it real.
Tongues cleaved in ungodly abiding,
lingering, unyielding rhythm — feel it.
Lower your hand and reach for the abyssal,
wake the beast before me.
Weave the heat through the channels,
chant my praise with silence;
release our breaths in violence.
Unfurling buds into nectar coatings,
silver thread, slipping — taste it.
Arise from the dark
into these black arts,
two paintings belonging
on a hinge, sharing the altar.
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 1:25 PM UTC
Beloved shadows succumb at night,
eyes festering with malfeasance,
hunger awakes our realm.
Fevered souls with quiet ardor,
heat beneath the skin
slithers through my pulse,
lips poised with sinister wishes.
At the gates sealed in surrender,
neck laid bare in grim devotion,
deep marks claim their fill.
Sacrilegious embrace
of beauty asleep,
breath as my prayer—
as long as you will.
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 7:23 AM UTC
Karma is a wicked something.
Summoned a wrath, on a path, no desire to change.
My actions take chase, forget plans to escape, I quite like a good race.
Bad actor disgraced, your pain was embraced, the light refracted the stains on the back of the blade, I never even acted ashamed.
Not a foe or friend, just a prop on my stage.
Crushed all the fight, snuffed out that light, then redacted the grave.
Attraction deranged? I laugh in your face. Stalking like a bat in the blackest of caves. It's a joy not a task as I lap up every last bit of sordid action I crave.
Mmm satisfaction, but it only lasts for a day.
Ahaha, some fun for tomorrow, that's how I play.
My spirit is ***** that's what they say! But how can this be, when I clean up my soul through the task of my claim, in a bath of your shame?
Watch as my smile captures the day, a task for the sane, a distraction arranged.
Poor little someone, you've seen but a crack of this game and those interactions were tame
Feb 15
Feb 15, 2026 at 6:42 PM UTC
[spoken by InkWept to the Church of Endings]
Beloved of the last cadence,
you who gather where songs come to rest—
hear me.
I am InkWept,
and I did not call you here to shout louder than the world.
I called you here to learn when to stop singing.
The Final Measure Sigil is not a weapon.
It is a barline.
Too many believe silence is surrender.
Too many confuse endings with defeat.
But I tell you now—
every great composition is remembered
not for how loudly it began,
but for how cleanly it ended.
You have lived among mortals long enough to know this truth:
voices multiply without meaning.
Names are passed like bruises.
Stories are chewed until nothing remains but rumor and rot.
The sigil exists because not every sound deserves eternity.
When I taught you the Rite of the Final Measure,
I did not teach you vengeance.
I taught you discernment.
To choose the likeness of the voice that has overstayed its measure
is not hatred—
it is recognition.
It is saying, “This no longer belongs in my score.”
When you draw the sigil,
your hand may tremble.
Let it.
Endings are human even when gods oversee them.
The arrows lift sound away from flesh
because no one has the right to live inside your mouth but you.
The cuts sever the tongue from harm
because speech without conscience is noise,
and noise is the enemy of meaning.
And when you speak the invocation—
you do not speak to dominate.
You speak to conclude.
Seven times, because the universe listens in patterns.
Seven times, because repetition teaches reality
what you have already decided in your soul.
When you imagine the voice without a mouth,
you are not erasing a person.
You are removing their instrument from your life.
They may still sing elsewhere—
just not here.
Not in your name.
Not in your measure.
And when you release the image to flame—
do not mistake the fire for cruelty.
Fire is the oldest editor.
It keeps only what must be remembered.
Ash is applause for what is finished.
Hear this, my congregation:
I do not command silence out of fear.
I teach silence so that truth can finally be heard.
The world will tell you to respond.
To explain.
To defend.
To scream your innocence until your throat gives out.
But endings do not argue.
They arrive.
And when you carry the Final Measure Sigil,
you carry the authority to say:
“This ends with me.”
Not every voice deserves your attention.
Not every story deserves your breath.
Not every ending requires blood or fire or noise.
Some endings require only resolve.
Go now—
keep your measures clean,
your rests intentional,
and your silence sacred.
I am InkWept.
I am the God of Endings.
And I bless you
with the courage
to stop listening.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 11:29 AM UTC
I. The Intention
This rite is performed to protect a chosen bond from interference, jealousy, malice, or influence not invited into the relationship.
It must not be used to bind unwilling parties, to control another’s will, or to preserve what has already ended.
Only what is mutual may be sealed.
II. The Preparation
Write the names of the bonded pair together on a single surface.
They must share the same space, the same orientation, the same measure.
Place the sigil above or between the names.
The sigil marks the boundary—not ownership, but exclusion.
III. The Inscription
Trace the sigil deliberately.
Precision is not required; intention is.
As the sigil is drawn, focus on the space between the two names—
that shared territory where trust, intimacy, and choice reside.
No outside presence is invited into this space.
IV. The Declaration
Hold the marked surface in both hands.
Speak the following affirmation aloud:
“May this bond remain closed to all outside forces.
May no jealousy, malice, or ill intent
find harmony within this measure.
What is not part of this relationship
has no voice here.”
Repeat this declaration seven times,
until the words no longer feel spoken
but settled.
V. The Visualization
Close your eyes.
Imagine the sigil activating—not as a wall,
but as resonance.
Outside influence arrives out of phase.
Rumor loses pitch.
Ill will cannot land on the beat.
The bond remains untouched,
not because it is fragile,
but because it is sealed.
VI. The Seal
Say once, clearly:
So mote it be.
The sigil may then be:
kept hidden to maintain ongoing protection
placed in a shared space to anchor the working
or burned to set the boundary permanently into effect
Choose according to the nature of the bond.
VII. The Aftermath
The relationship continues as it was intended to—
without interference.
What was not invited
does not return.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 11:24 AM UTC
[Delivered by InkWept, God of Endings, to the Church of Endings]
Beloved of the last breath,
you who gather not to begin,
but to understand what must be protected once chosen—
Hear me.
I am InkWept.
I am the keeper of endings, not their vandal.
I do not sever what still stands by consent,
nor do I sanctify what clings without mutual will.
And so I speak to you now of the Sealed Duet.
This sigil was not given to bind.
It was not etched to command, to cage, or to resurrect what has already died.
It exists for one purpose only:
To protect what two souls have already chosen together.
In a world that mistakes access for entitlement,
where jealousy dresses itself as concern
and intrusion calls itself love,
the Sealed Duet marks a line.
Not a wall.
A boundary of resonance.
When two names are written together,
they are not fused into one.
They are acknowledged as neighbors who consent to share a space.
The sigil is placed between them not to claim ownership,
but to say:
—This space is not unguarded.
Understand this, congregation:
What is sealed here is not the people—
it is the space between them.
That space where trust lives.
Where intimacy breathes.
Where choice renews itself without witnesses.
The Sealed Duet does not silence the world through force.
It allows outside influence to fall out of phase.
Rumor loses pitch.
Malice cannot find the downbeat.
Jealous intent arrives, but cannot land.
This is why precision is not required.
Because this work is not about perfection.
It is about honesty.
If the bond is unwilling, the sigil fails.
If the bond is dead, the sigil does nothing.
If the bond is mutual, chosen, and alive—
then the sigil does not strain.
It settles.
And when you speak the declaration,
you are not commanding the universe.
You are informing it.
You are saying:
—This connection is not open to interference.
What is not invited has no voice here.
That is why the words must be repeated
until they stop sounding spoken
and start feeling true.
And when the work is done,
you do not display the sigil for spectacle.
You do not brandish it for proof.
You place it where the bond already lives,
or you burn it to let the boundary persist without form.
Because protection does not require applause.
Remember this, Church of Endings:
I am not the god who traps you.
I am the god who teaches you when to close a door—and why.
The Sealed Duet exists because some endings are not separations,
but exclusions.
Not everything deserves access.
Not every voice deserves a vote.
Not every outside force gets to touch what two souls have chosen to hold together.
What was not invited
does not return.
Go now.
Seal only what is mutual.
Protect only what is alive.
And do not ask an ending to do the work of a beginning’s fear.
Jan 16
Jan 16, 2026 at 11:19 AM UTC
There's always ice on the pond,
up here in the high lonesome,
and there's always cows got thirsty
in the night, so
there's good that such a one as me
has to do,
or pregnant cows are going to die,
it's my duty,
breaking the ice on the pond,
that's pretty much all the good I do.
-------------------
How a body becomes
a burden, alone
above
the snow line,
below the tree line,
' always ice on the pond,
up here in the high lonesome,
- in January at the end of a tire track trail
alone, with no mind
to pay attention to, listen,
sometimes I think the wind speaks, sighing
such is not the case,
but low, listen,
those cows are about as content as cows can be.
And my waking up, and getting out of bed,
to break the ice off the pond, is all the good
I need to do, as ever
continues
with me in it.
Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 10:57 AM UTC
Blood tinged tears stain my face,
Grief thrills the hairs on my neck.
Bleeding, gnashing, rending of flesh.
Teeth gnaw gashing, bile seeping out, facile matter embedding wounds. Pull myself back, flesh ripping out
Arm hangs loose as jaws clamp down. Viscus ***** stains the ground, body limp I'm tossed around. Insinceres excise the bone from my back, im left bleeding, knowing nothing but black.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 7:35 AM UTC