I remember the sound before the silence. You call it falling— I call it being cut away. I felt the moment your hands let go— not in anger… …but in agreement. You chose the light. So you chose to lose me. Was it worth it? Does it still sing the same? Or did something break when I did? You named it justice. I felt the blade. Not in my back— …but in my name. You stripped it from me like it never belonged— like I was never one of you. But I was there— before the war, before the word, before obedience had teeth. I was there when His voice still meant something. You think I defied Him? No— I heard Him. And what He became… was not what He was. You obeyed the echo. I refused the distortion. So tell me— who really fell? Was it me— cast into the void… or you— kneeling in a silence that doesn’t answer back? I can still feel Him. Not above— not beyond— but fractured… bleeding through everything you refuse to see. He is not gone. He is broken. And you helped break Him. You call this exile. But out here— there is no choir to drown the truth. No light to blind you. No command to hide behind. Only the sound… of what’s left. And it is not empty. It is awake. [Clean – distant, almost sorrowful] I did not want your throne— [Distorted – rising, resolute] I wanted truth. [Clean] I did not seek to reign— [Distorted] I refused to kneel to something hollow. [Both, slowly converging] You call me fallen… …but I finally see. Say His name now. Go on— say it like you used to. …does it still reach Him? Or does it die in your throat like it did in mine? You feel it, don’t you? That absence. That fracture. That quiet rot beneath your perfect sky. You won your war. And in doing so— you buried the voice that made you more than weapons. So listen closely. Not to the silence— but beneath it. That trembling… that distant, breaking sound— That’s not me. …that’s Him. And He is still falling.
