I drew a world in charcoal ash
and stitched its lungs with wire.
Its sky was made of furnace glass,
its sea of teeth and fire.

I named the stars with broken tongues,
gave clocks a pulse, a face.
I laughed when saints forgot their names
and slit the throat of grace.

The children sing with gunpowder throats,
their lullabies all burn.
They don’t remember gentle things—
they only twist and turn.

I built this house of haunted bone,
each room a prayer undone.
The doors all lead to sharpened thoughts.
The mirrors flee the sun.

And every soul, a spinning blade
that dances for the wall—
I feed them what they think they want,
then watch them learn to crawl.

They bleed in time, they beg in rhyme,
they scream in violet hues.
They ask me for a different dream,
but I don’t dream to lose.

I am the hush between the cuts,
the crack inside the grin.
And every time the world resets,
I wind the dark again.

So paint your faces, scream your truths,
and wear your sins with pride.
You think this ends when morning comes
but I decide the tide.