In the seeping dusk of an unlit world, I find sanctuary amidst the ephemeral shadows. Like fevered whispers upon a desolate breeze, they call — echoing the silent sorrow which binds me to this twilight existence. Here, beneath the canopy of night slowly breathing its crimson fog, I wear my solitude like a crown of thorns.
Do you hear them too? The specters that dance upon the peripheries of sanity? Their laughter, a twisted melody, resonates with the very marrow of my soul. They weave tales of glory and woe, painted across the heavens in strokes of sanguine desperation. I long to step into their world, yet fear the mirror shall reflect more than mere illusions.
I am the dreamer lost, yet found — casting forlorn gazes into the abyss of what might be, should this heart dare to beat beyond the realm of shadows. And there, within the depths, a single ember glows, promising warmth in the cold embrace of eternal night. It births a crimson vision of what I cannot sever, of realities intertwined in a dance of broken promises and whispered wails.
As the stars awaken her luster, I reckon with my fears—an emergency of the soul, a crimson tide that washes over the whispered memories of yestereve. And so, I turn this page, not of paper but of ethereal dreams: Obscure Revelations.
A haunting poem rests upon the winds, waiting for hands long gone to embrace its truth. The starlit promises made once in forgotten dreams seem now like revolting alibis for love lost in the descent. In the approach of that elusive dawn, a hidden chorus sings—a symphony of false hopes tangled within the web of Broken Alarms.