Attendee Type
Masked Guest
Created
2025-02-21 18:12:49.548 -0600
Observation
God? There is no God.
Only the remnants of our fallen tribes remain.
We carve our grief into hickory,
hide our skulls in the grain.
He left when the fire came—
just as we asked.
Monastrell grapes until we drown the shame,
dancing under a warm light.
First, they fell.
Then we burned the rest.
Now we dance with the Myrtle Tree
until our time arrives.
Let us be reborn, forgiven—
or let the council fall.
Our only hope
is to survive
...
or look for the star that remains.
Response 1
There is no exit,
only the hush beneath the Myrtle Tree.
We, the heretics,
brought down the king—
his skull lost to the dust,
his name fading in the wind.
So we rejoice,
not with libations,
but with sweet Xinomavro grapes,
heavy on our tongues.
Response 2
Ah,
The Quiet Star
wrapped in wool,
untouched by our mistakes.
The soft weeping of ghosts,
past the ruin, past the ash,
where the vines remain,
their Marawi grapes ripening.
Still, she sleeps—
unburdened.
Response 3
The desert stretches forward,
endless,
The sky does not part,
but fire still burns—
So we arrive
and find only ash.
Still, we say—
we are home.
Revision
Just remorse,
as if the grain might someday speak.
No kingdom,
only quiet as the Myrtle sleeps.
