Fate calls on a cold summer eve.
Easing fourth I pretend that my dissatisfaction
Is a fruitful beacon.
My soul contends to rest in the shadow
Of hollow desire.

Rising from the hate buried deep
within,
I seek the path least taken to empty the blackness
That has become a focal point
In where my attention is affixed.

I turn lies into truths with the wave of hand.
Crafting chaos in disguise,
While exuding innocence with my eyes.

This is all just a plan that collapses
In Light,
To seek requiem in the twisted visions
Of the darkest corners of my mind.