The spark that once guided a solitary soul through the labyrinth of night—
tell me, has she been choked beneath the funereal hush of whispered melancholy?
Do we rise like tattered seraphs toward a starless heaven,
or does fate breathe its cold prophecy upon our necks,
claiming us before we ever dare to flee?
Perhaps we are the architects of our own damnation,
hammering each nail into the coffin of our becoming.
Who stands guilty at the altar of ruin—
you… or I?
Can I sever these iron chains forged from society’s ancient doctrines,
those towering monoliths of brittle ideals,
or will they collapse upon me like a jagged avalanche,
burying all remnants of hope beneath their crushing weight?
When does one discern that happiness is a dream worth chasing—
or a dream that demands a sacrificial death beneath its altar?
What becomes of the soul that loosens its grip—
does it bend and creak until it shatters
like old timber beneath a storm-torn sky?
When do we cast our sins into the abyss?
At what threshold does the weight become too monstrous to cradle?
When does the fractured thing I am arise as hero—
or must I surrender to the villainy the world so eagerly assigns me?
When kinship becomes the toll for survival,
where shall I sign my name in ash and ink?
When betrayal becomes customary and victimhood their favored performance—
where shall I sign?
When “love” requires the bartering of one’s soul
to pacify the ever-starving masses—
tell me, where shall I sign?
When I am carved into a grotesque doll—
sculpted not to shine too brightly,
not to laugh too loudly,
not to dream too grandly,
lest I disturb the fragile egos circling like carrion birds—
and thus I am cast into the wasteland of misfortune
that others dare to call home.
Where, then, do I sign?
If time could be halted,
in what cursed breath would I freeze the world?
Somewhere between their covetous gazes
and the cold blade of their ridicule?
“You are too wise.”
“You are not wise enough.”
Tell me—
where do I sign?
Who shall don my cloak of shadows
when I crumble into dust?
Who is the next lamb dragged toward the slaughter?
Whose soul will you conscript into this macabre play—
this theatrical butchery that rends the spirit into ribbons
beneath your inherited hatred?
Will you grant them even a heartbeat
to outrun the hellhounds you unleash upon them?
Will you force them to gaze upon their own mortality
as though it were a mirror veined with cracks?
When does this gothic reign of terror end?
When does it end?
How many stitched abominations—how many Frankenstein-born echoes—
must you create
before your monstrous appetites finally rest?
Dark&Stormi 
Leave a comment