“I am not the one who called.

Not the first, nor first to fall.

Not the spark that lit it all—

I simply am the end.

Worn of flesh and born of stone,

built to reap what none would own.

Carved from war and left alone—

where no one dares to send.

You think me death with sharpened blade,

a wrathful god, a beast remade—

but I’m the silence wars have paid,

when nothing else remains.

You cry for peace—you made your tomb.

You danced and sang and fed the gloom.

Now here I stand, the final bloom

to wither all your chains.

I was forged in buried hate,

in coffins where the children wait.

In treaties signed way far too late—

in every dying vow.

I do not feast. I do not sleep.

I do not climb. I do not leap.

I only dig the final deep—

and you have taught me how.

The war was yours—you carved it well.

The bells you rang, the flags that fell.

The burning hills, the iron shell—

your work, your great design.

I only come to draw the close,

to shut the gate, to press the rose

against the flame until it knows

no memory of our time.

And so—behold—the breath I take

is not of life, but all I break.

A wind to make the stone heart ache,

to scatter ash and name.

Not fire, no, nor acid rain,

but silence like a tightened chain.

A pulse of void, a world unmade—

unseen and yet the same.

No flash. No boom. No shattering crack.

Just all things gone, and none come back.

Not even ruin left to track—

no shadow, sound, or flame.

A sucking hush. A blink of sky.

A wave that does not roar but sigh.

Not death—not pain—but reason why

no more shall play the game.