You speak of spheres and ancient gates,
Of fighting off the cruelest fates.
I was not "spark" nor "childish play,"
I was the dawn you turned to gray.
I was the breath you dared not take,
The fragile heart you vowed to break.
But every time I reached a hand,
To heal this dry and broken land,
You held the blade, not to feel the sting,
And clipped the feathers from my wing.
"Don't be strange,"
your armor cried,
"There is no place for gods inside."
You called this world a killing space,
And I, a weakness in your grace.
But listen through the walls of steel,
To the wound you claim you cannot heal.
You say you killed me?
Look again.
I am the ink within the pen.
I am the ache that wakes you up,
The emptiness inside your cup.
You buried me beneath the floor,
But I am still the open door.
So lock me up to save your face,
To survive this cold and brutal place.
Because somewhere deep,
In secret space...
My memory
Will claim its place.