To be is to whelm all that remains,
For l am the spectre haunting my mind,
Mirth echoes deeply within my soul's pain,
Crushed by the cruelty of unyielding time.
There's a quake in my bones as I evanesce,
An indelible saudade for the peace of the void,
Yet deafening silence heralds my spirit's egress,
My vessel lies empty, in ruin destroyed.
This world is a furnace that blackens the lung,
A cycle of torment no mercy withstands,
Where innocence withers before it is young,
And grief is delivered by merciless hands.
I pace through existence like shackled decay,
Entombed in a flesh that no longer feels mine,
Each hour corroding what little will stays,
Beneath the slow torture of endless decline.
There is rage in my heart where affection once grew,
A hatred distilled into marrow and breath,
For humanity hollowed itself into despair,
And left only ghosts to keep company with death.
I cannot remember what living once meant,
Nor whether my heart ever truly had beat,
For something within me was twisted and spent,
Now dragging its carcass through ruin and heat.
Yet still l am barred from the solace of death,
Held hostage by gods I no longer believe,
Condemned to draw out each burdensome breath,
With nothing remaining to mourn or to grieve.
Too weary to claw at the walls of the grave,
Too hollow to rage at the fate I endure,
Since dying's denied to the revenant I became,
I shall lie with the earth and let moss take me whole.
