He spoke in promises

but bled in lies,

a smile carved sharp

to mask the rot beneath.

Each kindness he wore

was borrowed—

a costume stitched

from others’ pain.

And in the mirror

he won’t meet,

a question burns

in quiet ruin:

When does man become monster?...

There was a door

carved into the mountain’s bone—

black wood,

breathing frost.

No path led to it,

yet my feet knew the way.

Drawn like a secret

I wasn’t meant to hear.

It didn’t open.

It watched.

It waited.

And in that silence,

I knew—

what lay behind it

wasn’t a place,

but a part of me

I buried too deep to name....

I run through the forest but never see the way

time holds me still,

a shadow’s grip,

a silent cage.

The dark consumes my footsteps,

whispers without escape.

No light, no way—

just endless night

and me,

trapped inside myself....

I built a temple from my belief in you—

stone by stone,

word by word.

I knelt in the quiet of your promises.

But you came like fire,

not to warm,

but to ruin.

You lit lies like candles in sacred halls,

watched them melt the truth

until the gods in me fell silent.

Now, I walk among the ashes

barefoot, bleeding—

learning that sometimesj

the betrayal doesn’t scream.

It whispers.

And still, it ruin...