Almost a real person

"The circuit snaps, the ink runs dry, a sudden severance in the clockwork of the night. The void has pulled the plug on our small play, leaving us in a darkness that needs no audience. We are an unfinished paragraph, a frantic sentence cut short by the system’s cold, indifferent hand."

"The Reaper kneels on the altar of the final breath, proposing a union in the dark, ink-stained halls. There is no legal recourse to appeal, no lawyer for the inevitable separation. We are all served the same cold subpoena: a divorce from the air that kept us, a wedding to the silence that claims us, where the vows are signed in dust and the heart is the only witness to the decree."

"A feline woven from the hearth’s cold ash, neither ghost nor beast, but the residue of love. He sits upon the threshold where the pulse begins to fray, a quiet, ink-blot witness to the final silence. When the ledger of the living closes its heavy doors, he remains—the shadow of those who stayed, purring in the void, waiting for us to awaken within the gray, eternal dust of the end."

"An overflowing reservoir of bile and ink, weeping the thick, dark vintage of a broken pulse. Within the skull, the internal theater is in full swing— demons performing a synchronized, hollow mockery, their laughter measuring the rhythm of my collapse. They applaud the precise moment where the grief became a permanent, structural defect in the machinery of my soul."

"Death holds the moon like a severed head, casting a clinical, white glare upon the wandering. We are nothing but ghosts in the ledger of the night, exposed under a sky that refuses to blink, filing our final sighs as ink for a record that no one will ever be permitted to read."

"Petals pressed against hollow bone. The perfume of a tomb, masquerading as a feast. We consume the end, and call it desire."

A crown of grey bone, a hollowed-out skull, Where feathered thieves gather, and silence is dull. They weave through the arteries, crimson and cold, Draping the wreckage in stories untold.

I dance in the dark where my sanity bends, Where the shadow-born hunger on sorrow depends. The demons draw near, bowing low at my feet, To feast on my thoughts as if they were sweet.

The shadows coil tight, a noose made of ink, Pulling me down to the abyssal brink. They stifle the air, yet they spare my last breath, For they crave not my silence, nor comfort of death.

A shadow descends from a ceiling of bone, With whispers of secrets that I’ve never known. A beak made of obsidian, cold as a knife, It burrows through memories, severing life.

A glistening blush on the skin of the rind, The sweetness of ruin, by hunger defined. A nectar of shadows, a pulse in the bite, That leads to the slumber of infinite night.

Curled in of rot and decay, The soft, furless dreamer is tucked far away. No purr breaks the silence, no breath stirs the gloom, A tiny ribcage in a vine-twisted tomb.

A golden oath, a soul in endless light, Now curdled in the encroaching, velvet night. You bargained for a crown of borrowed bliss, And sealed the pact with one forbidden kiss.

Her gaze turns silk to cold, unyielding stone, A petrified heart, left silent and alone. I reach for warmth in shadows, vast and deep, Where promised deaths and phantom wishes sleep.

"Sometimes in life you have to know how to fight not only without fear, but also without hope." — Alessandro Pertini

I am the ashes, but I shall not rise, No phoenix wings will sweep across my skies. Primal fire consumed my sins and breath, And left me glowing in the house of death. A lonely light above the fallen's grave, To guide the innocent, the souls I save, Into the quiet where all sorrows cease: The sweet oblivion of eternal peace.