Free The Death of the Wave by G. L. Adamson

lie,
    for he called me Artist,
    and never spoke my name.
    My name is Blue,
    but the king, he remembered me.
    He told me to watch her,
    to watch her where she goes,
    and learn of what she did.
    And I saw her death in those black eyes.
    But I was in love,
    and love makes you blind.
    I kissed the hem of his robes,
    and burned my lips on silk
    from a place once called Arabia.
    Galileo, you had promised
    that I would be the savior of Eden.
    The protector of the State.
    And would always be remembered.
    And I believed you, Galileo.
    I believed in you.

TO THE CAMPS: BREAKER 256
AUTHOR
----
    Greatness, for all the citizens can aspire
    And if pure words turn fates,
    Light hearts burnt upon a pyre
    I’ll build in the states
    Listen, tell a tale, my liar
    Each in fire hates.
     
    Only, close the doors behind them.

PART THREE:
Blossom (Cont.)
BREAKER 256
----
    I had sent the words out into the world
    and there is no going back.
    For it is the words
    that define immortality.
    It is the mere fact
    that the words exist at all.
    I was to save the people
    no matter the cost.
    And if I die,
    I will live on
    under my name.
    For I am words
    and words know how to wait.

BLUE
----
    I had sent the words out into the world
    and there is no going back.
    For it is the author
    that defines immortality.
    It is the mere fact
    that I exist at all.
    I was to save the State
    no matter the cost.
    And if I die,
    I will live on
    under her name.
    For I am words
    and words know how to wait.

BREAKER 256
----
    For we are

BLUE
----
    For I am

BREAKER 256/BLUE
----
    On the side of the angels.

BREAKER 256
----
    So it began.
    The Camps had been caught by fire.
     
    For pure hearts build.
    Citizens turn upon the tale.
    The words burned in a fire!
     
    How quickly they deciphered the messages
    that I had given them.
    My clever Artists.
    In the Camps, they were building their guns, their blades
    out of what they could find.
    Useless debris, put to use.
    They had begun to deface the posters.
    The Camps were almost ready.
    They trembled in apprehension.
    All they needed was one more spark.
    One more spark that was stolen from us.
    The Voice, the Voice of Eden,
    still called out the Edicts every hour
    over the sound of the gunshots.
    Soon it would have been silenced.
    Soon, when they were ready.
    The children were hungry, the Citadel had cut off aid quickly.
    But we had to wait.
    Wait, or risk the failing of our future.
    Better to die out of love
    than to die for hate.
    Better we die together
    with the words of our history ringing in our ears
    than to peter out by population.
    We were great once.
    We could have been again.
    I dreamed of a world where we existed
    and the people knew the truth.
    For we stood there with the new world order in our hands,
    and the promises that you Artists gave me
    could have won a revolution.
    I loved you all.
     
    Had it been enough.
AUTHOR
----
    G reatness, for all the citizens can aspire
    A nd if pure words turn fates,
    L ight hearts burnt upon a pyre
    I ’ll build in the states
    L isten, tell a tale , my liar
    E ach in fire hates.
     
    O nly, close the door behind them.

FOURTH LETTER
DESCARTES
----
    To the Artist:
    Ah, you respond!
    A moving confession.
    And no, to me, you shall always be the Artist.
    You vain, postulating boy.
    They gave you a pen, not a kingdom.
    Remember:
    There are no good or bad people,
    and therefore no true ‘winning side’.
    There are only bad people,
    but some of them rally to a different drum
    and have longer life expectancies.
    So stand your ground.
    Be noble.
    It won’t bring her back.
    Enough. Listen.
    You must take up the pen.
    Take up the name,
    and write the words.
    Spur the fight, the retribution.
    Burn the Citadel so that something new may grow from the ashes.
    I know you can write, even if it was under another name
    and you’ve seen her work.
    Atone for your mistakes, your pointless changing of sides.
    Protect the State,
    by having it broken.
    Save the Artists
    if only for Author.
    I’ll