(this thing is a bit wild but I became obbsesed wwith the concept , apoligies if it makes no sense)            

                        Death be proud||du O R pe B hta E d
                               Forever lost||T s O lre VERO f
                      all has said truth||H t URT dia S s A h LL a
ghost magot and buried nun ||n UNDE i R ubdnat O g A m T so H

She’s Morphine, queen of the vaccines,
She bruises so cold with nooses of plated gold.
A needle’s kiss to silence the screams,
In veins she flows, makes the broken bold.

With hollow eyes, she numbs the ache,
A dance of shadows in a hazy dream.
Her whispers soothe, her promises fake,
Like liquid sin in a silver gleam.

She lures with comfort, draped in deceit,
A siren song beneath trembling skin.
Each breath grows slower, bitter yet sweet,
As she pulls them deeper, where light grows thin.

Her kingdom reigns in shattered minds,
A queen of solace for the souls who weep.
But every high leaves truth behind,
And in her grasp, they fall too deep.

The final dose, the fatal crown,
Golden nooses now tighten tight.
The queen smiles soft, then drags them down,
To sleep forever in endless night.

__
              /              \
            /  Locked tight  \
        /  upon the earth, \
        |    a lid sealed firm, |
        |  to hide the birth of  |
        |  what we seek and fear, |
        |  all buried deep, too  |
        |  close, too near.        |
        | Curiosity breaks the seal,|
        | whispers rise, dark truths |
        | revealed, shadows crawl, |
        \ through the crack, /
          \  they escape them all.  /
          | From every grief, to    |
          | every pain, out they    |
          | surge like heavy rain.  |
          | Yet, deep within, there |
          | lies a glow, the last  |
          | of things we may not    |
          | know. When all seems    |
            \ lost, so faint, so slight,/
              \ Hope, a flicker, a    /
                \  final light.    /

Oh, Para—

Paramedic?
I could also have healed you;
Para, you don’t need a medic.

Paraplegic?
I could also have been broken for you;
Para, you don’t need a plegic.

Paramilitary?
I would have fought your battles;
Para, you don’t need a military.

Why, oh why, could it not have stayed—
Just Parame?

I met a queer man in a modern land,
Who spoke of brooks of bone and shattered stone.
He dipped his trembling fingers in the sand,
And watched the leaves drift far beneath the foam.

In shadows, soon, he found a hollow nook,
A corpse lay still upon a broken tome.
Upon its cover, words the man mistook:
"I bear a name that tarnishes like loam."

He asked, “What name is yours, what cursed brand?”
The corpse did stir and whispered through the gloom:
“I am Melarubiconib, condemned,
A name of silence, carved upon my tomb.”

The man stood silent, frozen by its breath,
The name, like shadow, led him into death

One fine morning, without a word,
My socks went rogue—yes, it's absurd!
They formed a union, held a vote,
Demanded freedom (and a boat?).

They marched around my bedroom floor,
Chanting, "We won’t take sweat no more!"
They waved their heels in fierce protest,
Claiming, “Feet have been a pest!”

The left one said, “We need a break,
I’m tired of every step you take.
I suffer blisters, grime, and stench—
Your workouts leave me in a trench!”

The right one piped up, “Hear me out!
It’s always shoes that get the clout.
But who’s the hero down below?
It’s us who bear the toe-to-toe!”

My underwear, not far behind,
Whispered, “Honestly, I’ve had a mind…
To join this mutiny of cloth,
You sit all day? I’m feeling wroth!”

The irony? My hat just scoffed,
“It’s tough on you, you’re really soft.
Try sitting on a sweaty head,
Where sunshine makes your wool turn red!”

But then my gloves joined in the fray,
“Don’t get me started on cold days.
Fingers freezing, shoved in snow,
Yet still we wave hello and go!”

With socks now lounging on my chair,
I muttered, "Fine, I’ll go bare."
And as I walked across the floor,
The rug winked, “Careful! Im splinter core…”

So here I stand in grand defeat,
A sockless fool with naked feet.
But I can’t help but laugh, I swear—
Who knew my laundry had a flair?

Theseus, bright lad, thought he’d be slick—
He handed his dad a jar, said, “Pick
One wish, one hope, or maybe two!”
His dad just sighed, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Pandora’s pithos! Great for Dad’s shelf,
A jar of curses... or good luck itself!
But here’s the real gift, I swear it’s true—
White sails, Dad, when I’m coming to you!”

Off Theseus went, proud as a goat,
Without a thought, a plan, or note.
Sails? Who’d remember that part of the deal?
He returned in black like it wasn’t a big deal.

Old Aegeus squinted, peered out to sea—
“What’s that son of mine doing to me?!”
Saw those black sails and the jar in hand,
And took a dive, just like he’d planned.

So now we call it the Aegean Sea,
Thanks to one kid’s gift and faulty memory.
And Theseus? He shrugged, gave a clueless stare—
“That pithos gift? Yeah, it’s heirloom fare."