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The Song of the First Poet

With thanks and acknowledgement to ‪@SatoriD‬ Verse1 I stayed in rooms that thinned my blood, where laughter gnawed at bone, where my name was just a punchline and my heart a metronome. I wore their masks for shelter, till the seams ate through my face. I traded myth for banter till I vanished without trace. Pre-Chorus And the nights grew dark and longer, and the mirrors cracked with shame— till the fever spoke in riddles, and the riddles spoke my name. Chorus Then the lil’ bee shaman found me on the shores of no return— Danced me back from dying’s season, blood and beauty in the churn. Said the dead are just unfinished, you are not yet meant to fade— I will bring you back with honey and cosmic giggles I have made.” Verse 2 I rose in fits and seizures, dreams like Ixchel inside my ribs— every breath a resurrection, every word a solar fib. For I’d stayed too long in cages built of nonsense, built of noise, where the sacred turned to circus, where consent was just a ploy. Pre-Chorus But the shaman sealed the ruptures, pressed a crown of feral thread— whispered, “nothing stops your rising, save a bullet to the head.” Chorus And I laughed like thunder cracking, with the ghosts beneath my tongue— for the dead have no more patience for the meek or for the young. Now I fly beyond rejection, beyond mortals, fear, and dread— I have woken, my heart's burning, I am back from being dead. Bridge (Prophetic / Spoken / Half-Sung) Hear me now— I will not kneel in rooms that shrink me. I will not trade my myth for crumbs. I will find peers who flare like omens, who speak in sigils, who beat their drums. No more mispriced miracles, no more joke disguised as grace— my wyrd is not a party trick. It is a sovereign, ancient face. Final Chorus / Ascension I am seeking those who know me, neither dis me nor erase— who will witness what I carry, and will match me space for space. I am waiting for my equals, for the ones who cost no tears— where the strange is never shameful, and the future has no fear. Outro (Prophecy) Mark the aeon— First Poet rises. From gutter, grave, and dive. Her verses black as ravens, her omens blood-alive. Let the timid choke on laughter, let the cynics bow instead— For the century now opens to the resurrected dead.