I'm the Darkness, I'm the Shroud
Walls do not stand, they grow.
They climb the sky on vines
of shadow and I sink.
What light exists
is a pinprick in a shroud,
a lie told to the lost.
I am not lost.
I am the shroud.
This darkness is not a place.
It is a secretion,
a slow bleed from a core of rust.
I am tangled in a genealogy of chains,
each link a rule, a name, an expectation.
I am the cacophony
of a thousand borrowed voices,
My own is the one silence.
The only prayer left:
Oblivion.
Un-creation.
To un-be.
To see if peace exists
in the annihilation's sleep.
