Across the desolate plains of devastation's ruin,
Onyx midnight, shines glimmers of a distant yearning,
We venture into the vast existence of contemplation,
Withstanding not, the wretchedness of our own disdain,
Seeking the creation of our personal despair,
Walking listlessly in a seemingly infinite redundancy,
The void of this deplorable existence...
Could this be the void, once more?
A haze, the dank and cold reality of thought,
Sickening absences, an emotional strain,
Plagiaristic death, our liiteral internal numbness,
We dance alone to the rhythms of our incandescence,
Potential motivators provide a simple purpose
A soul to yearn, we admire your simple determination,
We question your motives, and we question reason
Lost, we wander these hazy skies in an infinite night,
Recreating reason, and recreating time,
Misplacing the memories of our own trauma,
In the end, will we be granted peace of mind
Or, is this void really our own personal gift?