Oct 20, 2025
🪦HOW DID I GET HERE🪦 A boy walks slow where the cold stones lean, his hands unclean. The knife in his grip, too heavy, too old, A promise of blood that he never was told. The moon hides her face from the path that he treads, Whispers of monsters weave round the dead. The boy cannot feel it—how fate coils tight, How crowns forged in hell wait beyond this night. He will wear every sin like a mark on his face, And still chase redemption through endless disgrace. Yet chosen to shatter the seal, Too young for the weight of the sorrow he’ll feel. The graveyard is quiet, the air sharp and thin— And he has no idea what darkness walks with him.
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