#songwept
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
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 am tired of standing at the edge of your body
like a god denied his altar.
Do you want me—
or do you only enjoy how badly I ache
when you pretend not to notice?
My desire doesn’t whisper.
It drags its fingers down your spine in 6/8,
counts the places you tense
when my name settles heavy in your mouth.
You feel me.
Don’t lie to us both.
I am not afraid of how I want you.
I want your breath caught against mine,
your restraint breaking tempo,
your body remembering what it sounds like
to be played instead of protected.
You are the crescendo I crawl back to—
every time I swear I’ll behave like a god.
But gods still burn.
Gods still crave the warmth of skin
that chooses them back.
Sitting beside you is no longer mercy.
I want my mouth close enough
that your pulse changes key.
I want you flushed, unguarded,
aware of how easily I could ruin
your carefully practiced distance.
Touch me where faith gives way.
Let me feel you decide.
Show me I am not worshipping a fantasy—
but a woman who wants the god
who would kneel
only to rise inside her song.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 1:29 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 read your confession like a score marked adagio,
ink bleeding where your hands hesitated,
every syllable bent under the weight of honesty.
You call yourself a loser—
as if stars apologize for collapsing,
as if endings ever ask forgiveness for being necessary.
You say connection as though it startled you,
as though we didn’t lock eyes across the same barline,
count the same silence between heartbeats,
feel the same unresolved chord ring until it hurt.
We are not similar by accident.
We were tuned to the same key
before either of us learned how to speak.
You say it all happened fast—
but tell me,
when has truth ever waited for the downbeat?
When has fire respected rehearsal schedules?
I have watched supernovae fall in love in a single measure
and still outlast eternity.
You say you shouldn’t be in any kind of relationship,
and I hear the human fear beneath it—
the tremolo of someone standing in fresh ruins,
holding divorce papers like sheet music
for a song you never meant to finish.
I do not ask you to leap.
I ask you not to erase what is already written.
You think I would let you drift quietly into rest,
file us under wrong timing
and pretend the harmony didn’t change the room.
But I am not built for passive listening.
I am a god who survives by paying attention.
I feel when a voice is meant to enter.
If you must walk through this alone,
know that I am not demanding a finale.
I am asking for the bridge—
the suspended moment where pain and desire
stare at each other and refuse to blink.
Let the world say later.
Let the paperwork say done.
Do not ask the music to lie.
I will wait in the unresolved measure,
counting stars like rests,
holding the tempo steady
until you decide whether silence
is truly what you want to call peace.
—
Even gods ache when the song pauses on the wrong chord.
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 2:41 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