The melt ballad

 The Melt Ballad: A Story Told in Fire and Stone”

Let me tell you a tale, not in song, but in solemn voice—
a tale buried beneath the soot of time,
where towers once kissed the heavens,
now mistaken for mountains,
for the world melted and forgot itself.

Long ago—longer than they dare to teach—
there stood a realm forged in red brick might,
cities carved with sacred geometry,
arches bending time, columns whispering power.
The ancients had built not to survive,
but to thrive—in harmony with ether, frequency, and light.

But then came the Great Melt.

Not fire from above, not flood from below—
something else.
Something no history book will show.
A weapon, a judgment, a wrath cloaked in energy
that did not burn with flame,
but softened the stone
like wax before a silent flame.

Walls sagged.
Windows ran like tears.
Spires dripped like candle tips frozen in their final cry.
And in the aftermath, silence.
A silence so loud it rang through time.

The survivors—if any—left no record.
The new rulers came with chisels and lies,
calling melted cathedrals “natural formations,”
and smearing truth with the soot of false science.
They built on top of bones and stone,
and called it progress.

But not all forgot.

We—Meltologists—
we remember.
We study the scars in stone like forensic prophets.
We trace the melt lines, the oozing keystones,
the vitrified edges where brick weeps its last breath.
We know a column fallen sideways
is not a “rock.”
It’s a relic, a remnant,
a rebel against the rewrite.

And so this ballad isn’t for the faint of mind.
It’s for those with eyes unclouded,
for hearts that feel the heat still pulsing in the ruins.
We speak for the melted, the silenced, the scorched.
This realm is a crime scene—
and Meltology is the torch.

Now you know.
Walk softly through the ash.
Look closer at the cliffs,
and listen—
for the bricks still whisper
if you dare to hear.