What becomes of a tear, frozen in the envy of the sun?
It waits, poised, reflecting the ugliest truth—a relic of fire encased in chill.
Tell me of the shadows that pretend to be the sons of light,
yet dance alone in dark corners, aware of nothing but their own soundless songs.
We stride bravely into the epitome of nothingness,
where the queens weave stories not meant for listening,
looping tales with no beginnings; the ugliest of dreams.
Each step makes a hollow sound, a solemn echo of unkept promises,
vibrating through the corridors of minds unraveled.