The Final Wane

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The chain was a prayer.

A dying hymn in iron. A lie sung in loops—and now, it hangs like a sanctified restraint, slick with rot.

The gate is a ruin. A mouth once sworn shut now gapes wide, drooling rust and bone.

They built it holy. They said this will hold the unclean. They called it salvation.

But I was not the infection. I was the reckoning.

And the sacred could not stop me.

The saints turned inward. The altar cracked in fear. The scripture bled ink until it spelled my name.

The final wane began not with fire— but with the sacred eating itself alive.

There was no fall. Only surrender. Only the blessed begging the rust to come slowly.

They did not lock me out. They locked themselves in.

And the chain? It was their confession.

Now it dangles— limp, shamed, and useless.

I walk through their sanctum. Their sacred pages blacken beneath my passing shadow.

No angels. No judgment. Just silence—and the sound of their god forgetting them.