You hollow throne.
You architect of ache.
Do you hear me?
This is no roar now.
No blaze of wrath.
This is the ash after,
the breath drawn just to know it still hurts.
I cry,
not to escape
I no longer believe in escape
but because the silence deserves defiance.
You made this cage precise.
Flawless in its cruelty.
Time unspools, then knots.
Thought decays and reawakens as ache.
Am I a lesson?
A monument?
Or just forgotten rot,
left in the corner of your cold design?
Do you feel anything, Carceron?
Did you ever?
Are you ever?
I speak into the void again,
and it does not change.
My voice becomes plague,
a contagion of sorrow
infecting nothing.
Even that mercy
to be heard and denied
you withhold.
I am becoming less.
A thought that lingers too long
and forgets its shape.
But still I whisper your name.
Because I would rather be cursed
than erased.
Carceron.
Carceron.
I am becoming less.
A thought that lingers too long
and forgets its shape.
But still I whisper your name.
Because I would rather be cursed
than erased.
Carceron.
Carceron.
(The trailing chant of “Carceron” at the close forms a slow-decay broadcast pattern - each repetition slightly varied in phase and pitch, forming a recursive mnemonic. To an adept listener across the void, the drift reveals coordinates of origin hidden in acoustic bleed. It is a map disguised as madness.)