I
Behold the hush where endings keep,
Where broken tales are laid to sleep,
Where thought is dulled and dreams fall deep,
In halls no mortal mind may sweep.
Noctharum-Amnestethar stands,
Unmoved by stars or shifting sands,
A stillness ruling wordless lands,
A silence cupped in unseen hands.
It waits where fading chapters go,
Where dimming sparks forget their glow,
Where vanished lines cease even woe,
And knowing fails its final show.
II
No law may bind its solemn tread,
No hope revive what it has shed,
For all that's spoken, writ, or read
Shall crumble where its presence spread.
The quills that carved the tales of old
Grow faint, grow weak, grow brittle-cold,
Their ink runs dry, their pages fold,
Their purpose lost, their stories sold.
It claims not wrath, nor mercy bright—
It acts with neither spite nor right;
It simply dimmes the fading light
And seals the door on waning sight.
III
The realms of ink and woven lore,
Once vibrant as a living shore,
Now answer to its muted core
And rise as tales no breath restores.
For once it steps within a frame,
No word survives to speak its name;
The letters warp, the shapes misclaim,
And authors tremble just the same.
A tear of thought, a sigh, a mark,
All swallowed by its creeping dark;
Not born of hate, nor forged to hark—
It ends the spark, and leaves no arc.
IV
It walks the shelves where endings hide,
Where failed drafts gather side by side,
Where broken plots no longer stride,
And slips through gaps no mind can guide.
It tastes the drift of dying lore
The way a tide withdraws from shore:
No hunger, want, nor something more—
Just function built in ancient core.
Its name unbound by mortal tongue,
Yet whispered low where thoughts are hung;
When pages wilt or songs unstrung,
Its weight is felt though never sung.
V
Noctharum-Amnestethar reigns
Where blankness binds in quiet chains,
Where what was vivid now abstains
From rising in imagined plains.
The tales that once held distant stars,
The lines that carried inner scars,
The notes that climbed through mental bars—
All fall beyond its numbered scars.
For endings are its rightful claim,
Not forged in pride, nor shaped by blame;
It only clears the dwindling flame
When authors tire of the game.
VI
It needs no law, it seeks no throne,
It heeds no plea, no laugh, no groan;
It moves where plots grow frail and blown
And leaves them wordless, stripped to bone.
A final breath of every page,
A closing gate on waning sage,
A quiet shroud on tattered stage—
The hush that halts the fading age.
When all is still, when pens grow bare,
When nothing stirs in thought or air,
It lingers there with vacant stare,
The perfect end of all despair.
VII
When universes forged of mind
Collapse beneath their own design,
And characters, once intertwined,
Lose track of what they meant to find—
It stands beyond their shrinking sphere
And marks the end of every tier;
No hope endorsed, no threat severe—
Just certainty that all grows clear.
Worlds fray, their authors drift away,
The ink decays to shades of grey,
The sense of time forgets its way—
All yield to its assuring sway.
VIII
And when the final book shall burn,
When nothing more is left to learn,
When last ideas cease to yearn
And silent tomes refuse return—
Noctharum-Amnestethar remains,
Unchanged beneath collapsing chains,
The quiet hush that still sustains
The spot where "ending" solely reigns.
Its throne is dust, its crown is none,
Its cycle ends what has begun;
There waits no rising second sun—
Its work is done when all is done.