Part III

(The Flower’s Grief)

The sky still opens.
The rain still falls.
But nothing comes.
No wings, no call.

My roots hold firm, though the soil decays,
starved of the dance that once gave praise.
I bloom with aching memory…
offering colour to a vanished creed.

They’ve gone, the ones who crowned the spring,
lost to poison, silence, spell, or sting.
And yet I bloom.
And yet I bleed.
Because I remember what we were made to be.

Part II

(The Spell’s Source)

The witch spoke a name, dark and sweet,
and bees forgot the flowers’ beat.
Their buzzing ceased, a hollow sound,
a kingdom lost beneath the ground.

In the black forest’s heart, it grows…
a flower no bee remembers.
Its petals drip with twilight’s poison,
a bloom that calls but never knows.

The bees have flown from memory’s edge,
lost to whispers and fading light.
And in this place where darkness reigns,
the forgotten bloom waits in endless night.

Part I

(The Bee’s Lament)

The blossoms bleed no honey,
only sharp air and bitter light.
I circle fields of glass,
my wings thrumming a dying song.

The wind tastes of metal…
a scent too cold to follow.
Petals close like whispered lies,
offering only empty cups.

The queen’s throne is empty…
a silence heavier than dust.
I am a ghost in a cage of petals,
lost to a world that forgot me.

Once, my wings carried gold,
now they hum a hollow tune.
I chase a memory too distant…
a song swallowed by poisoned skies.

O, dopamine—friend or foe?
Do I even want to know?
You whisper soft in joy or pain,
Then vanish like the summer rain.

You dress in laughter, dress in fire,
You ride the thrill of each desire.
From subtle crush to grand success,
You bait the heart, then leave a mess.

A hunger we all learn to feed,
But never learn what we really need.

O, dopamine, you wear my skin—
You cheer me on, then reel me in.
I see the tricks, I feel the sway,
Yet chase you just the same each day.

But maybe truth is not to flee,
Just learn which part belongs to me.

I’ll dance with you, but know what’s real—
O, dopamine… we’ve made our deal.

I clawed my way from winter’s mouth…
the wolf that fed on memory and rot.
Its hunger had no end,
and I was the feast.

But I tore loose.
With bloodied breath and crooked spine,
I rose.

In the forest of endings,
a bear’s voice called…
half lament,
half command.
It knew my name
when I had none.

The stars spun in reverse.
The cycle cracked
like glass under weight.
And in the hush that followed,
a flame stirred.

It spoke:

“Come, child.
You are the death
of forgetting.”

And somewhere,
deep in the trees,
another wolf stirred…
not the devourer,
but not yet known.
Its eyes burned with something ancient,
its breath was the wind.

It waits.

And when it steps forward…
which wolf will it be

Before the body,
there was only light…
two sparks circling the same sky,
whispering across the night
without names, without form.
Only memory waiting to return.

No promises of peace were made.
Only one truth:
When the time comes, shake me awake.
Break me, if that’s what it takes.

It was never meant to be easy.
Only real.

So when the fire comes…
eyes that know too much,
hands carrying a mirror
no one else dares to hold…
something ancient stirs.

Not a fairytale reunion.
Not soft edges,
but friction that strips illusions clean.

Some connections aren’t meant to soothe.
They arrive to undo.
To pull up what was buried,
to tap the nerves no one else could reach.
A mirror that doesn’t flatter,
but reveals.

The kind that doesn’t offer safety…
but demands truth.

And through the ache,
a quiet remembering:
this has happened before.

Maybe not in this skin,
but in some echo of a life
where recognition wasn’t a feeling…
it was a force.

Not everyone would see it.
But for those who’ve made the pact…
the soul knows.

Beneath the sea that isn’t wet,
Where blackened suns refuse to set,
A throne of teeth awaits the crowned…
But only those who’ve never drowned.

It speaks in tides not made of water,
In names that burn the tongue to utter.
And every soul who kneels to reign
Must trade their eyes to feel the flame.