I dreamt of despair, where shadows weep,
In corridors of chaos, where silence sleeps.
No light to follow, no stars to guide,
Only the absence of a vast and hollow tide.

In delirium's grip, I sought the abyss,
A yearning so sharp, it tricked me for bliss.
Not survival's song, nor triumph's gleam,
It's the end of the script, the death of a dream.

And yet, from the void, a cry takes flight,
A whisper, a wail, a trembling light.
Not of triumph, nor joy, nor faith is secure,
But of hope unbroken, fragile and pure.

I claw at the heavens with hands of fire,
To burn the design and will of my desire.
Through the ashes, a voice still prays,
An endless murmur, refusing to decay.

For what is divine but a cruel jest,
A destiny bound in the chains of the blessed?
Yet the cry persists, a mournful plea,
A prayer for a truth all refuse to see.

I crave the collapse, the unmaking of all,
The fall of the heavens, the shattering of forth wall.
Though in hope, it lingers, a red thread,
Binding the living to the cries of the dead.

No meaning to seek, no purpose to crave,
Only the dance of destruction, the prodigal wave.
Yet, in the ruins, the dream remains,
An endless echo of love through the pain.