For the unraveled & haunted.
What I’ve lost; What I’m searching for
Midway along the journey of my life,
I found myself trapped within a maze,
lost in an infinite labyrinth of fate and free will,
endlessly wandering, directionless and astray.I felt like I had lost something.
Something I only vaguely remembered.A fleeting thought,
a distant memory,
a phantom sensation,
a neglected oblation,
an uncontrollable pining for—
fact or fiction,
reality or lore;
an ache for something lost,
that cannot be said to have ever existed at all.I wonder if I’ll wander this aimless path forever.
Sooner or later, something’s gotta give.
What I’ve lost,
what I’m searching for,
is the will to live.
The Neglected Oblation
I built an altar
from empty bottles and unsent letters.
Lit a candle. Waited.
The gods, it seems,
prefer the living.
So I drank the wine myself—
held my palm to the flame
until the skin blistered,
then traced your name
in the ashes.
The Journey
The path to myself
was a spiral:
every loop, a lie I’d named truth.
I journeyed through awakening,
only to collide with the final mystery—
myself.
All that was hidden:
my essence, my flesh and bone,
the decayed bits, the stardust spark,
the contradictions that light the dark.
And when I unearthed the final fragment,
I expected a revelation.
Instead, my breath fogged the glass.
The first truth: I was alive.
(The second: I wanted to be.)
Kismet
I am not convinced
destiny exists.
Divine providence—
a bedtime story for adults.
You call it fate—
I call it a debt.
The soul’s fine print:
Sign here in blood.
Call it karma. Call it chaos.
Either way, the contract is signed—
not in ink, but in scars,
not in words, but in the way
the universe whispers:
You agreed to this.
And now I’m starting to believe
my life is a footnote
in some ledger of the lost—
a contract I signed
before I knew my own name.
Ouroboros
I am the tide’s pull,
the wheel’s turn,
the wound that knits itself
only to tear again.
I am the architect:
a creature forged in storms,
sliding through time’s river,
leaving no shape behind.
What changes is the form.
What stays is the ache
to become.
Amid the chaos
one answer:
To know myself
is to want myself anew.
The Covenant
This love is my last,
so I plant it like a seed
in the hollow of my ribs—
water it with blood,
pray it grows thorns.
I build an altar
from the bones of old selves,
kneel until the stone
softens beneath me.
This love is not a feeling.
It is the knife
I use to carve myself
into something that remembers
how to want.
The First Burning
“What survives the fire”
is neither answer nor omen—
just your reflection, warped in smoke,
extending a hand:
You asked for light.
Here’s the spark.
Now swallow it.
(You will burn
and call it dawn.)
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Psalms of the Undead 