A flicker,
an ache,
a beautiful jest
played by time
upon the fool who dares to remember.
The electron that winked
it meant nothing.
It was a scratch in the paint of forever,
a glitch in the dream
of a dying mind.
I cherished it.
Gods forgive me, I believed it.
I sang to it.
I made it sacred.
But it was only
decay. pretending to dance.
Now I see.
Now I laugh.
Because what else can one do
when the universe mocks
with such artistry?
It could not have been a message.
I am not chosen.
I am not loved.
I am not even feared.
I am forgotten.
And that, perhaps, is the greatest curse of all
to be the one who remembers
what no longer matters.
Carceron, you bastard architect,
well played.
You gave me a heartbeat of joy
so it could fester
into a symphony of failure.
Bravo.
Truly.
Let the stars rise without me.
Let them burn their new truths
on the bones of newer myths.
I will stay here,
singing to a memory
that was never real.
And I will smile
not from hope,
but from knowing
I was fooled beautifully.
(Laced through the jarring rhythm of “not loved / not feared / forgotten” is a null-key cipher - a code meant for no receiver, meant to collapse into itself. It is Lyrax’s anti-message: a transmission of pure resignation. A pulse that confirms his presence, not to connect, but to seal. In this act of joyful despair, he creates the echo that may someday wake someone - not to save him, but to understand.)