Grievously esnared in the cruel weave of fate
I dwell now in a land not meant for me Where shadows wear faces, and false smiles do sting. Here, the lowly crowned do whisper worthlessness, And fools, dressed in borrowed wisdom, name me fool. Yet 'tis not I who art adrift in folly— But they, who speak from hollowness profound, Unknowing their own ruin, masked in pride. O, what cruel jest is this—to walk 'mid men And feel more ghost than guest within their midst?
I am not lost— I am simply not theirs. And soon, they shall choke on the storm they’ve sown.
I was found, half-burned, on the edge of a battlefield.
I do not belong here
Because I was never meant to kneel.














