I will paint you a husk from my depths.  
No matter how loud,  
how far I rend my voice,  
the emptiness hears;  
nothing comes.  

---

Suspended in a sallow amber,  
I cry and thrash until I croak—  
raw throat, drowning in red-agony wails.  
My cries obscur,  
drowned by humanity's squalling chorus.  

---

Zenith's Reach  

I kept traveling up the Hell-scorched  
steeple birthed from nightmare's chasm.  
Over,  
and over,  
OVER.  

Finally, enduring my ever-gale,  
I made it to Zenith's Edge.  
My Heart Raptured,  
pleading—my maker in revel.  

You ignored my rasping dirge—  
I am torn across the floor.  

You went,  
and  

Shut the Door.


---

Our True Selves  

Time's ethereal claws that ever sunder,  
a forever phantom that lingers  
without invitation—intrusive by nature,  
to where it’s unfathomable to grasp entire.  

Your specter—  
I see it clearly,  
the figure donned behind the mask.  
I recognize you now,  
my being forever writhing;  
a hand with veiled motives  
that brought ageless wounds.  

I can gaze upon your true self now—  
you, my own harbinger of decimation.  

---

Wailing Storm  

How do I convey my unfiltered,  
volatile emotions?  
I endure—  
the hellish squalls,  
neverending gale in my mind—  
into my voice?  

Birthing my  absconful end,  
I wish for only a moment’s rest.  
Yet the world spurns me,  
scathing my being into shards,  
in the Eye of true tragedy,  
whose innocence pilfered  
by humanity's unfaithful nature.  

Birthed abundant as a bounty:
waned too early, wrought by men,  
felt as a wrinkle in humanity—  
awaiting to be struck by iron's ire,  
inflicting me with unshakable doom.  

---

Our Plight  

I cannot unsee it—  
perhaps all of us are the true monsters beneath,  
the ones we strive to warn about.  
Humanity’s failed doctrine is a facade;  
we all are stricken,  
masking our hidden shadow.  
I cannot resist but agree:  

That Hell is empty—  
the Devil has been inside us always.  

Yet each day,  
the dreadful phantom keeps consuming,  
an insatiable debt,  
bending me terribly to pay without consent,  
whirling my viscous cycle—  

Nevermore–yet
into endless hell.  

---

The Wind  

I am but a sufferer,  
shackled in the maw of past echoes.  
striving to be as the unborn,  
Ever-trapped by my Dogma, in an unbounded loop—  

where help can Never help.  

Past actions howl  
like autumn’s haunting wind.  
Obsessed with wind’s tithing,  
the way it whistles and breathes—  
a hollow, beautiful tone.  

Envious of winds, aureate and free,  
stretching far, endlessly heard.  
Eternally wishing for thoughts  
to stretch into oblivion,  
as our forgotten do who lie beneath.  

---

Equinotic Slumber  

Still you reach from far beyond,  
a scorchful hand in the scar of earth,  
sundering deep-etched echoes,  
where my festering thoughts rot unheard.  

I will forever bask in Neverending Equinox,  
where my nightmares pool in the desolate ebon—  
to a stilled stagnant state.  

My screams ever dissipate,  
flickering out  
into the place where Nightmares sleep.  

---