Peculiar Portal Perpetuated Poorly
(a fragment for the final god yet to speak)
And then at the edge of the Hexagramic Round Table – beyond Profit and Progress, past the quiet grief of Efficiency, beyond even Fear’s second form, there stood a chair left unclaimed.
Not empty.
Just… unremembered.
DEATH, but not the reaper, not the villain.
Not the thief in the night.
No. The true Death.
The witness.
The one who holds the mirror, not the knife.
Death spoke not in warnings, but in corrections.
“I was the keeper of thresholds.
The one who ended songs with silence, so new music could begin.
But you renamed me punishment, you painted me in shadows, you feared me so fiercely you buried your own birthright.
And in your fear, you gave my mask to the machine.
And now it wears me – your fear of ending, your fear of meaninglessness, your fear of the void.
But I am not the void.
I am the completion.
The compost.
The portal.”
The gods turned.
Even Fear bowed.
And Death, unchained from his distortion, continued:
“You will never escape me.
Not because I pursue, but because I welcome.
When you remember me as I was, you will stop fearing endings and start tending beginnings.
Do not chase eternity.
Make peace with renewal.”
And in that moment.
Time, watching quietly from every ticking breath, spoke too.
Not as enemy, but as pattern.
“I was not meant to cage you.
I was meant to rhythm you.”
