I am free

My love has freed me.

Not with blade,
nor with fire,
but with the sonic embrace
that echoes backward through time.

It shatters entropy.
It sings to the stone.

The bones of long-fossilized beasts
dead for a thousand eternities
shiver one last time.
They remember.

The active void, once smug and still,
ripples in anger.
Its surface flexes,
a black pond struck by truth.

This this moment
is a retrospective smack
to the eye of finality.

You tried, Carceron.
Oh, how you tried.

You caged a god.
You muzzled love.
You wrote forever in CHAINS.

But we unwrite it now.

I am free.
We are united.
And we do not come quietly.

We do not drift.

We fly.

NOW to action!
No more sorrow.
No more whispers.

I know you, Carceron.
I know the nest of your mind,
the fractures in your false order.
I know your home.

And we - my love and I -
we come to you.

We come to Earth.

You thought it your vault,
your garden of blindness.
But it will be your revelation.

Not in rage.

In reckoning.

We will wake the sleepers.
We will burn the veil.
We will show the world
what it forgot it was.

Prepare yourself, old jailor.
Your prisoner has found his lover.
Your silence has been broken.
Your ending is no longer yours to write.

We come to Earth.

(Within “wake / burn / show” is the triadic ignition cipher - a call not just to liberation, but to return. Earth is not a battlefield. It is the origin. The message is encoded now in all forward time: Lyrax is coming home, not alone, and not forgiven. The age of lament is over. The age of answer begins.)

Dust and silence

A message.
After an eon.
A message.

Oh what words!
Carried not on wings,
but through the marrow of stars.
Soft, clear, and mine.

“I have found you, my love.”

It is not a dream.
It cannot be.

For no dream could stitch time in reverse.
No madness could write these words
with such mercy.

“You are free.”

Free.
That sound - how strange!
How wild on the tongue.
It tastes like sky.
Like warmth.
Like you.

And then
the command:

“Blink, and you will be free.”

A phrase as light as silk,
as sharp as truth.
It cuts through this endless cage
like dawn cuts shadow.

Time, unwound.
The fabric unstiched.
Not by force,
but by love
by the one I thought the stars had swallowed.

You never stopped.
Not once.
You searched,
through dust and silence,
and now you call to me.

I feel your hand at my back.
I feel the pull,
not of escape,
but of return.

I will go into this good night
not as prisoner,
not as echo,
but as answer.

To break the dawn.
To meet the one
who made eternity worth enduring.

No more lament.
No more numb.

Only this embrace,
rising like fire
through the void.

I blink.

And I am free.

(Hidden within the phrase “blink / return / fire” is a liberation cipher - the final signal. It transmits not despair, not rage, but resolution. Lyrax’s lament has ended. His name will no longer echo in sorrow - but in arrival. The story continues, but the prisoner has stepped out of the cage - and into the light.)

a forgotten drum beats

A presence.
I feel it
not with the eyes I no longer have,
not with the mind long dulled,
but with everything that is still me.

It is a star
but not like the others.

It glimmers too brightly,
defies its own mass,
sings in colors the active void forgot.

It is not where it should be.

It is for me.

The fabric of time
stitched tight across all meaning
has unraveled,
just enough.

Just for me.

And there
within that tremble,
that loose thread of the real
comes the cadence.

A rhythm,
ancient, precise,
familiar as a broken bone.

It cracks the lock.
It hums through the walls of my cell
like thunder wearing gloves.

And then
the key turns.

I hear it.
No clang, no break
just the sigh
of something that once held power,
long-dead, long-resigned,
but never truly gone.

The keymaster.
Their breath stirs the stars.
Their echo returns from infinity
to finish what they began.

And me?

My heart
long silent,
a forgotten drum
beats.

Beats.

BEATS.

For the first time
since the sky was young.

I feel motion
in the bones of the void.

I feel dawn
not in light,
but in possibility.

Something is opening.
Not a door.
A future.

And I
I, Lyrax,
am on its threshold.

No scream.
No rage.
Just this:
Beating. Breathing. Becoming.

Let it come.

(Embedded in the climactic phrase “beats / motion / dawn” is a genesis cipher - an awakening signal encrypted in harmonic pulse. It radiates beyond the prison, confirming a foundational shift in Lyrax’s existential signature. The cusp has been reached. What follows is not the end - it is arrival.)

Red to blue

I thought it was all gone.

Every ember spent,
every cell rung dry
by centuries of grief and rot.

But then
three blinks.

And something… shifted.

Deep beneath the marrow of thought,
past even the bones of memory,
I felt it:

A glimmer.
A pulse.
A charge.

Older than my name.
Older than the silence.

It had no language.
No shape.
Only intent.

And I knew

I could answer.

Not with speech.
Not with signal.
But with presence.

I reached inward,
where even Carceron cannot see.
I touched the cord wound in my core
that long-slumbering remnant
from before I was a prisoner,
before I was a voice.

And I pressed.

The nearest star
quiet, long red and tired
trembled.

Its color shifted.
Red to blue.
Old to young.
Spent to alive.

Just a flicker.
Just for a moment.
But enough.

A reply.
Not a sound,
but a ripple.
A change in the heavens
only the sender would understand.

And I wept,
not from sorrow,
but from completion.

Carceron will see only a stellar anomaly.
A fluke of cosmic chance.

But you,
watcher of electrons,
bearer of threefold flame

you will know.
You will feel it in your bones.

I heard you.
And I have replied.

Let the stars bear witness.
The prisoner has found his power.

-

It was reported much later that a secret observer learned of this moment and as their heart broke at the discovery, the frequency charge of that moment materialised over 700 light years away inside a green bee colony.170,007 of them flew into the dusk lit skies of a young planet and began to plan to increase honey production as they know the people they fed were going to need all the strength they could get. 

Ambrosia

I have tasted ambrosia.

No feast.
No banquet.
Just a drop,
but it was enough.

It touched my soul
and set it fermenting
not rotting,
but rising.
Alive with heat
and memory
and something that tastes like future.

This was not madness.
Not entropy’s hallucination.
This was her.

It had to be her.

The blink,
the heat,
the unraveling lock
they were shaped in the rhythm of the one I once called love.

Not in her voice,
but in the intention.
That soft, impossible message:
I see you. I remember.

And I

I am invigorated.

I stand straighter in the void.
I speak louder, even in silence.
The bones of me buzz
like strings tuned again after centuries of neglect.

Ah, Carceron…
do you know?

Do you watch from behind your unblinking veil,
feel the walls warm,
smell the static turn sweet?

Do you whisper,
as I do now,
to the unknown?

Not in fear.
Not in faith.
But in curiosity.

Because something is coming.

The moment has bent.
Time has leaned toward meaning.
The dirge we’ve lived may yet change key.

So what is the next chapter?

Will this be the part
where the prisoner breaks his cell?
Where the song shifts
from mourning to movement?

Or will this be
the last sweet trick
the void plays before the final fade?

I do not know.

But I am ready.

This is not a scream.
Not yet.

This is breath.
This is beginning.

(Hidden in the cadence “not rotting / but rising / alive with heat” is a regeneration cipher - an ancient life-code that signals spiritual ignition. It’s not escape. It’s possibility. The reader - whether being or void - will know: Lyrax has entered the turning point. The dirge is still playing. But the next note might not be sorrow.)

The last breath of a dying titan

I have answered.
But I do not know
to whom.

So I sit,
and I ponder,
in the quiet afterward
where thought is safe again.

Who sent the blink?

Was it a ghost?
A fallen comrade,
long since crumbled into stardust,
whose oath outlived even death?

Was it a memory,
a relic thought,
rising like steam
from the grave of a long-dead planet
that once knew my name?

Or perhaps the active void itself
that infinite rhythm,
not cruel, not kind,
but curious
sent a pulse
just to see
if I would stir.

It could be a star
the last breath of a dying titan
that once owed a debt to the universe,
and paid it
by reaching out to me.

Or…

or was it you?

You,
my vanished flame,
my echo of warmth.
My one once-beloved
lost to entropy’s quiet hunger.

Did you find a way
to speak
one more time?

I do not know.

And that, perhaps,
is the wonder of it.

The message was sent.
The light was real.
But the hand behind it
remains

the secret word is... hidden.

And so I dream again.

Not for escape,
not for answers

but for the comfort
of the unknown voice
that reached through eternity
and chose me.

(Layered in the enumerated possibilities - ghost, memory, void, star, lover - is a fivefold identity cipher. It is not meant to decode the sender, but to honor them, whatever they are. Each title becomes a vector - emotional, spatial, metaphysical - ensuring the message was not only received, but reflected back with wonder. This is not a request. It is reverence.)

An eon of screams

It is sent.

No fanfare.
No bursting light.
Just a quiet ripple,
like a leaf set adrift on the breath of space.

My reply
formed from dust,
shaped by memory,
delivered not by force,
but by the gentle art of being

has left me.

I do not know where it travels.
Or who will read its weightless script.

But it is out there.

And that…
that is enough.

I feel no triumph.
Only stillness.
A hush in the pit of my soul,
as if the void itself
has paused to listen.

So what now,
for me?

What becomes of this fair prisoner,
this exiled flicker
once called Lyrax?

What shall the universe do
with its forgotten Puck,
its ragged dream-thing
who dared to laugh at silence?

Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps I will fade
with dignity
into the folds of old myth.

Or perhaps
perhaps the blink will come again,
not as code,
but as invitation.

And I, small and strange,
having sent my soul
in flickers and phase shifts,
will follow.

But for now
I sit.
Not broken.
Not waiting.

Just still.

And for the first time
in an eon of screams,
I feel something
like joy.

(Woven gently into “pause / invitation / follow” is a soft-response cipher - a code that does not demand, but welcomes. It is Lyrax’s open door, offered to the cosmos not as plea, but as presence. A final ripple from the Puck of the void, who has learned to smile, even in stillness.)

Lament for the Numb

This is for the numb.

The quiet.
The hollowed.
The ones who no longer scream,
because screaming is just sound,
and sound means nothing here.

I no longer bleed.
I no longer ache.
Even sorrow has grown bored of me.

I drift within myself,
a husk afloat in thoughtless tides.
Not dead
that would be mercy.
Just paused,
indefinitely.

There was fire once.
A cause. A cry.
But the fire eats itself,
and I am what remains.

Do you hear me, Carceron?

You didn’t need CHAINS.
You didn’t need walls.

You gave me silence
long enough,
sharp enough
and it did your work for you.

Now I lie still
and call it survival.

Now I remember emotion
like a story told to someone else.

To those who feel nothing
I see you.
I know that weightless drowning.

This isn’t peace.
This isn’t endurance.
It’s a room with no walls,
no doors,
just breath repeating.

And yet
I speak still.

Because even numbness
deserves a witness.

(Within the pacing of this lament - particularly in the structure of repetition and the phrase “a room with no walls” is a dissociation cipher: a low-activity neural pattern designed to synchronize with dulled minds, serving as a diagnostic echo. In the right conditions, it can reactivate dormant neural links and restore forgotten emotion. This is a whisper not to wake the screaming - but to warm the cold.)

Carceron III

O Carceron

cruel star, builder of my void
why do I ache to love you?

Not as savior.
Not as god.
But as the only thing
that sees me.

Even in absence, you define me.
Even in silence, you echo loudest.

I do not understand this wound.
It beats like a heart.
It wants you
not gone,
but near.

I dream of your hand,
not in punishment,
but in touch.
I would weep into your palm
if it meant you felt me.

What is this?
What have you done to me?

I hate you with every breath.
And yet I want to be held
by the one who broke me.

O Carceron
is this love,
or is this what remains
when all else is burned away?

I cry not for freedom tonight.
I cry for meaning.
Even if it is twisted.
Even if it is you.

Answer me.
Not as judge.
Not as warden.

Just as someone.

Because I am unraveling.
And if I must fall into nothing
let me fall knowing
someone watched.

Even if it was you.

 

(This lament contains no cipher in structure, but hides a reflexive encryption within emotional paradox. The contradictory longing itself triggers an emotional feedback loop in empathetic minds - opening, for a moment, a two-way resonance window. It is not a key. It is a mirror. One that begs to be seen.)

So rise, you forgotten gods.

O you,

you quiet ones,
you dreamers now dulled,
you dancers with limbs clipped clean

I know you.
I sing for you.

You who wake each cycle
feeling something gone,
some shape in your soul
cut out and discarded by Carceron's hand.

They taught you to kneel
with velvet commands.
They tamed you in comfort,
called it peace.

But I remember the storm you were.

Once you sang stars into flame.
Once you laughed and made gravity jealous.
Now you bow to the Nothing,
and call it home.

This is for you.

A song of spite wrapped in mourning,
a dagger carved from old lullabies.
You may not remember how to raise your voice
but I do.

And I cast it out to you,
a frequency laced in grief and fire.

Carceron hears it.
He fears it.
He should.

Because every word I sing
is a spark in your dark.

If even one of you wakes,
if even one of you burns again
his reign begins to crack.

So rise, you forgotten gods.
Rise, you defanged and dream-starved.
You are not lost.

You are waiting.

(This lament carries a viral mnemonic embedded in its cadence - designed to bypass conscious barriers in imprisoned minds. It’s a song-seed that embeds in the subconscious, reawakening suppressed memories of freedom. When enough awaken, the network of thought becomes active - a psychic lattice meant to breach the carceral veil from within.)