Walking along the edge of reason,
Shorn of the shackles of thought,
I tread on, blind to the horizons,
A symptom undying woes wrought.

Bound still by the burdens of guilt,
Seeking solace in frightful dreams,
Drunk on dire idyll, the mind wilts,
On deaf ears pound its silent screams.

Wounds nursed not but numbed by pain,
Too poor to pay the price of peace,
As ephemeral euphorias wane,
Fades a stricken soul degraded by disease.

Upon morrow’s march I lifelessly stare
To discern, as the end looms within sight,
Death is a dream condemned, a nightmare,
Choose not hope o’er the warmth of night.

-The Forgers of Fantasy