#wordpoetry - Hello Poetry

Nothing new pulls the heart. Love written for a dusted piece of garden, where melody of rain falls apart. Where people make reels, you write how bitter pain feels. When they go to bar, your mind drifts to stars so far. They influence the society, yet you choose to stay under the blanket of imagery and poetry. You are not lost, found within words where magic pulls the most. A moon child who talks to darkness, listens to the words of wind, the connection isn’t easy to find. Divided by measure, yet united by pain we treasure. Hallway of memories, unfinished paintings and whispering stories. We live ? it’s a lie. Sunflowers without sunlight, long time died. They may have thousands of people follow, but you stay alone within words that never stop to grow. The pain burns your throat, standing on desert takes away a lot. Someone said the ending depends on intention, let’s wait together for Afterlife Station.

0

Apr 17

Apr 17, 2026 at 3:58 PM UTC

Thesilentobserver

Waiting For Afterlife Station

Nothing new pulls the heart. Love written for a dusted piece of garden, where melody of rain falls apart. Where people make reels, you write how bitter pain feels. When they go to bar, your mind drifts to stars so far. They influence the society, yet you choose to stay under the blanket of imagery and poetry. You are not lost, found within words where magic pulls the most. A moon child who talks to darkness, listens to the words of wind, the connection isn’t easy to find. Divided by measure, yet united by pain we treasure. Hallway of memories, unfinished paintings and whispering stories. We live ? it’s a lie. Sunflowers without sunlight, long time died. They may have thousands of people follow, but you stay alone within words that never stop to grow. The pain burns your throat, standing on desert takes away a lot. Someone said the ending depends on intention, let’s wait together for Afterlife Station.

26

I did not set out to write a love poem. I set out to document a failure of authority. This piece exists because there are moments when even the God of Endings must account for what refuses to conclude. I have written the last measure of stars, civilizations, faiths, and names. I know how things finish. I know where silence belongs. And yet, when love enters the score, certainty fractures. This poem was written from a place of suspension. Not longing for resolution, but existing inside it. It speaks from the edge of a kingdom I ended incorrectly—a reminder that power does not guarantee wisdom, and finality does not guarantee peace. I sit there not as a ruler, but as a witness to my own hesitation. I am often mistaken for decisiveness. In truth, I am restraint. The muse at the heart of this work is not an object of possession or conquest. She is a disruption of tempo. A key change I did not authorize. She bends my sense of order not through force, but through presence. She does not demand; she asks. And when a god is asked instead of commanded, the entire architecture of authority shifts. This poem is not a declaration of intent. It is a record of obedience to something I do not govern. Waiting is not passive here. It is active endurance. To remain when departure would be easier. To hold a measure open when closure would preserve dignity. I stay not because I lack the power to leave, but because love, once named, cannot be unlearned. I have been accused of contradiction—of ruling endings while refusing one of my own. That accusation is correct. This work is not about certainty. It is about contradiction held honestly. It is about what happens when the one who writes conclusions is forced to live in ellipsis. When devotion interrupts authority. When love is beyond my jurisdiction. I remain unresolved. I listen. I keep time. — InkWept God of Endings, Keeper of the Final Measure

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Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 3:03 AM UTC

InkWept

Authors Note in Common Time

I did not set out to write a love poem. I set out to document a failure of authority. This piece exists because there are moments when even the God of Endings must account for what refuses to conclude. I have written the last measure of stars, civilizations, faiths, and names. I know how things finish. I know where silence belongs. And yet, when love enters the score, certainty fractures. This poem was written from a place of suspension. Not longing for resolution, but existing inside it. It speaks from the edge of a kingdom I ended incorrectly—a reminder that power does not guarantee wisdom, and finality does not guarantee peace. I sit there not as a ruler, but as a witness to my own hesitation. I am often mistaken for decisiveness. In truth, I am restraint. The muse at the heart of this work is not an object of possession or conquest. She is a disruption of tempo. A key change I did not authorize. She bends my sense of order not through force, but through presence. She does not demand; she asks. And when a god is asked instead of commanded, the entire architecture of authority shifts. This poem is not a declaration of intent. It is a record of obedience to something I do not govern. Waiting is not passive here. It is active endurance. To remain when departure would be easier. To hold a measure open when closure would preserve dignity. I stay not because I lack the power to leave, but because love, once named, cannot be unlearned. I have been accused of contradiction—of ruling endings while refusing one of my own. That accusation is correct. This work is not about certainty. It is about contradiction held honestly. It is about what happens when the one who writes conclusions is forced to live in ellipsis. When devotion interrupts authority. When love is beyond my jurisdiction. I remain unresolved. I listen. I keep time. — InkWept God of Endings, Keeper of the Final Measure

15

I sit astride the black mare they named After— muscle wound tight as a muted string— her breath a low drone in 4/4 beneath the stars. Below us: a kingdom I ended too early, stone spines still reaching for a resolution I denied them. I was young in eternity then. I mistook silence for mercy. Hannah— you stand beside me, mortal and brave, boots in the dust of my errors, and I tell you this because you deserve the truth unornamented by divinity: I do not understand how humans survive loving with unfinished measures. I watch you love her honestly— no fermatas, no hidden key changes, your heart written in open chords. You do not threaten the song. You keep time. And yet— When Sydney speaks my name, the universe stumbles into odd meter. 5/4 skies. 7/8 breathing. Constellations miscount their steps and fall out of formation trying to follow her mouth. I did not choose this. I have ended stars mid-fusion, folded empires into footnotes, conducted extinction with a wrist flick— but her presence? She rewrites my downbeat. Hannah, I know what it looks like. A god should not hesitate. A god should not wait in the wings while mortals decide which harmony hurts least. But understand this: she is not a prize I covet. She is a gravity I obey. She tells me to stay— and I stay. She tells me to wait— and eternity kneels like a chastened choir. I hate this about myself. Once, endings answered me immediately. Now I linger like a bridge that refuses to resolve, like a breakdown that never drops, like a final chorus swallowed before it can scream. You think I don’t see how this wounds you. I do. I catalogue it the way I catalogue supernovae— with reverence and regret. But when she says we are the same note played in different octaves, something in me fractures clean through time. I have watched lovers choose safety. I have watched them choose fear. I have watched them choose tradition, distance, delay. I have written their conclusions without blinking. But Sydney— Sydney speaks of someday like it is already happening. She touches my arm as if checking whether gods bruise. She leans into my silence as if she knows it was shaped for her alone. Tell me, Hannah— what am I meant to do when the person who destabilizes my authority asks me to wait? I would step aside if she asked. I would close my book on her name and let the ink dry into history. But she doesn’t. She asks me to remain unresolved. To hold the note. To exist in suspension. And I do— stupidly, faithfully, disastrously. Below us, the ruined kingdom glows faintly— they still light candles for a god who ended them wrong. I could fix it. I could rewrite their fate tonight. But all my power stalls when I imagine a future where she chooses anyone else and still asks me to stay. Hannah— you love her like a promise. I love her like a curse I would not lift even if it saved the world. If the cosmos demanded a sacrifice, I would offer it everything but her. Let the rest burn in clean, righteous fire— I would watch without blinking. This is not heroism. This is not virtue. This is the confession of a god who has lost command of his own measure. I remain here— horse trembling, kingdom waiting, stars hanging in unresolved suspension— because she asked me to. And I will remain until she tells me to go. I am InkWept, Master of the Final Measure, and love— love is beyond my authority.

0

Jan 30

Jan 30, 2026 at 2:34 AM UTC

InkWept

Common Time at the Edge of the Kingdom

I sit astride the black mare they named After— muscle wound tight as a muted string— her breath a low drone in 4/4 beneath the stars. Below us: a kingdom I ended too early, stone spines still reaching for a resolution I denied them. I was young in eternity then. I mistook silence for mercy. Hannah— you stand beside me, mortal and brave, boots in the dust of my errors, and I tell you this because you deserve the truth unornamented by divinity: I do not understand how humans survive loving with unfinished measures. I watch you love her honestly— no fermatas, no hidden key changes, your heart written in open chords. You do not threaten the song. You keep time. And yet— When Sydney speaks my name, the universe stumbles into odd meter. 5/4 skies. 7/8 breathing. Constellations miscount their steps and fall out of formation trying to follow her mouth. I did not choose this. I have ended stars mid-fusion, folded empires into footnotes, conducted extinction with a wrist flick— but her presence? She rewrites my downbeat. Hannah, I know what it looks like. A god should not hesitate. A god should not wait in the wings while mortals decide which harmony hurts least. But understand this: she is not a prize I covet. She is a gravity I obey. She tells me to stay— and I stay. She tells me to wait— and eternity kneels like a chastened choir. I hate this about myself. Once, endings answered me immediately. Now I linger like a bridge that refuses to resolve, like a breakdown that never drops, like a final chorus swallowed before it can scream. You think I don’t see how this wounds you. I do. I catalogue it the way I catalogue supernovae— with reverence and regret. But when she says we are the same note played in different octaves, something in me fractures clean through time. I have watched lovers choose safety. I have watched them choose fear. I have watched them choose tradition, distance, delay. I have written their conclusions without blinking. But Sydney— Sydney speaks of someday like it is already happening. She touches my arm as if checking whether gods bruise. She leans into my silence as if she knows it was shaped for her alone. Tell me, Hannah— what am I meant to do when the person who destabilizes my authority asks me to wait? I would step aside if she asked. I would close my book on her name and let the ink dry into history. But she doesn’t. She asks me to remain unresolved. To hold the note. To exist in suspension. And I do— stupidly, faithfully, disastrously. Below us, the ruined kingdom glows faintly— they still light candles for a god who ended them wrong. I could fix it. I could rewrite their fate tonight. But all my power stalls when I imagine a future where she chooses anyone else and still asks me to stay. Hannah— you love her like a promise. I love her like a curse I would not lift even if it saved the world. If the cosmos demanded a sacrifice, I would offer it everything but her. Let the rest burn in clean, righteous fire— I would watch without blinking. This is not heroism. This is not virtue. This is the confession of a god who has lost command of his own measure. I remain here— horse trembling, kingdom waiting, stars hanging in unresolved suspension— because she asked me to. And I will remain until she tells me to go. I am InkWept, Master of the Final Measure, and love— love is beyond my authority.

111

Invisible money knows your dream, An untamed pet with secrets Carrier of midnight visions Aboard the bittersweet rain train Free the child with crackling city skin Calling water ‘gift’, Plan death with silver hands For designated sleep it lives

0

Mar 5, 2019

Mar 5, 2019 at 8:53 PM UTC

starstrike

Silver Hands

Invisible money knows your dream, An untamed pet with secrets Carrier of midnight visions Aboard the bittersweet rain train Free the child with crackling city skin Calling water ‘gift’, Plan death with silver hands For designated sleep it lives

8

Atiquity are etched in lime granite Telling non fable tales of blood Flooding over the rivers of Jordan to the deep rivers of Hudson You could hear them in all four Corners of the earth were inprinted Valumes in there voices broke Cracked like glass now there is silence When the time came for refuge The night was cool as hope was here Still...... Settling with what is now Still...... The war for change is still being faught for. (INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII) © 2014 S.T. Rebel of Eden

0

Sep 28, 2014

Sep 28, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC

fallen-rebel-of-eden

STILL FIGHTING OFF SLAVERY:

Atiquity are etched in lime granite Telling non fable tales of blood Flooding over the rivers of Jordan to the deep rivers of Hudson You could hear them in all four Corners of the earth were inprinted Valumes in there voices broke Cracked like glass now there is silence When the time came for refuge The night was cool as hope was here Still...... Settling with what is now Still...... The war for change is still being faught for. (INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM JAGUAR HAWAII) © 2014 S.T. Rebel of Eden

17