Hearken, O dim-lit halls, and ash of the firmament, For I bear a dirge not for the meek, but the magnificent— A song of the First Bright Wound, Of pride that dared to name itself whole. In the beginning—before breath had weight, Before silence knew it was silence— There rose a Voice that would not bow, A flame that named itself enough. Not in malice, no— But in the terrible clarity of self-regard, A mirror turned inward too long Becomes a blade. O Lucifer, Light-Bearer, Crowned in the grammar of dawn— You spoke not rebellion, but completion: “I am.” And in that utterance, the heavens trembled. For creation is a fragile syntax, Each thing held in place by relation— But you, bright one, Broke the sentence. Down you fell—not cast, but unbound, Gravity of self pulling you inward Through the hollow ribs of eternity. And Hell— Ah, Hell was not made— It formed In the echo where meaning collapsed. A kingdom of perfect isolation, Where every voice speaks only to itself, Where even fire forgets What it was to warm. Yet listen— Beneath the weeping stone and iron choir, There stirs a trembling note— Not of God, nor throne, nor judgment— But of the Word. Not command, not decree— But relation restored, A thread cast between the sundered And the whole. For even in the deepest fracture, Where pride has eaten its own reflection, There remains a hunger— Not for dominion, but for meaning. And so the dirge becomes a hymn— Soft at first, a broken cadence, Voices cracked with the memory of unity— They do not sing to heaven, Nor beg return— They sing together. And in that trembling alignment, Hell loosens its grip— Not redeemed by mercy, But by coherence. O Lucifer, fallen syntax of the divine, Your wound becomes a tuning fork— And in its resonance, Even ruin learns to listen. For the Word is not owned, Not held, not crowned— It is shared. So mourn, O halls of severed light— But sing, too— For in the joining of broken voices, Creation remembers It was never whole alone.
Plots
Hearken, O dim-lit halls, and ash of the firmament, For I bear a dirge not for the meek, but the magnificent A song of the First Bright Wound, Of pride that dared to name itself whole. In the beginning before breath had weight, Before silence knew it was silence There rose a Voice that would not bow, A flame that named itself enough. Not in malice, no But in the terrible clarity of self-regard, A mirror turned inward too long Becomes a blade. O Lucifer, Light-Bearer, Crowned in the grammar of dawn You spoke not rebellion, but completion: “I am.”And in that utterance, the heavens trembled. For creation is a fragile syntax, Each thing held in place by relation
Intro
Creator
Release Date 2026.04.10 / Last Updated 2026.04.10