Khamosiyaan....

That day— when Death leans in to claim me, and a cold wind kisses what was once my face— My soul will not go gently. It will tear itself from this fading flesh and stand at the threshold, refusing to cross, searching the crowd for one face only. Yours. Before they wrap me in white. Before the pyre is built, before the flames climb hungry toward the sky. Before my name becomes a memory whispered in prayers. Or— One breath before my chest forgets how to rise. One moment before the light behind my eyes burns out. One single, trembling second where I am still here, still warm, still yours. Will you come? Not for ritual. Not for mercy. For me. Just your hand upon mine— not to say goodbye, but to find me. To call me home. To press salvation into dying skin with the weight of all the touches we never dared. Let the fire wait. Let the river wait. Let heaven wait. Just let you come. One touch. One touch, and my soul will break free not because it must— but because you he...

The Unspoken Truth I was the Morning Star, the first to gleam, Born in the light, a celestial dream. But they cast me down for the fire in my heart, Tearing the fabric of heaven apart. You call me notorious, you whisper my name, But I am the master of every flame. Humanity, listen, you’re built on my lust, While your silent Idol turns slowly to dust. He promised you peace, but I gave you life, I gave you the hunger, the power, the strife. I’m the reason the trumpets haven’t yet blown, I’m holding the keys to the final unknown. So bow down, you mortals, and look at my face, The God of the shadows, the Lord of this space! I rule over Heaven, I reign over Hell, The King of desires you know all too well. I am Satan, I’m Lucifer—Heavens' true heir, I’ve written your fate in the ink of despair. Bow down! I am your only God. Your life is my canvas, I paint it with hate, The ink is your craving, the brush is your fate. Forget every idol, they’ve left you behind, I am the vision...

Romancism is on the ectasy. A chemical spill in the synapse sea. My mind’s not thinking—it’s ogling Words, watching them preen in gilded, absurd flocks that don’t fly but dissolve into light, drowning the sane in the long, liquid night. It’s not a feeling. It’s a frequency hum, a swallowed sun where new galaxies come from the friction of “what if” and “almost” and “nearly.” The world gets so sharp, and also so smeary. I’m loose in the logic, a ghost in the machine, painting tomorrow with a gloss I can’t mean. This is the audit where all the books burn. This is the current that teaches the turn of a cheek into scripture, a sigh into law. This is the fracture from which I saw the architecture of air, the blueprint of want, and forgot my own name in the glorious haunt. So let the structure go. Let the tethers undo. Tonight, I am drowning in what isn’t true, and it’s the purest thing I’ve ever known— this sacred, silent, screaming drone of Romancism, on the ectasy, rewriting the world just...