My heart is mine to rule. My life is mine to spend.
My soul is mine to stain. My mind is mine to end.
I shall grant no quarter, to fancies without order.
Fairy tales, I name them—fools, the ones who claim them.
Though reason may be theirs, though logic may be sound,
Fools I still will call them—their whispers, I will drown.
I will not heed their reasons, for reason I reject.
I will not grant them audience; their pleas, I shall forget.
Wicked, cruel, deceivers—all who claim faith’s name,
I blind my eyes against their love, for sight would bear me shame.

Yet still this hound pursues me in comment and in creed,
Soft-speaking of a Love unknown, my tears begin to bleed.
In painted dreams He haunts me, with visions rich and bright,
Where life and purpose bloom, in hues I dare not write.
His voice like water calls me, it soothes, it lulls, it sings.
Yet I will not be conquered—I will not bow to kings!
I steel my heart against Him, I bar the door with pride,
For though the song is lovely, I must not step inside.

He's writ his sonnets on my soul, yet I shall tear them free,
For though my heart may hunger, I will not let it be.
Let me be a dust speck—a fleeting breath of clay.
Let me rot in comfort until I meet decay.
No joy, no peace, no meaning beyond this fleeting spark—
No future shall I fathom; I will not fear the dark.

Too harsh, too cruel, too simple, this writ upon my soul.
My pride will suffer nothing more than death to be my whole.
I stand upon this nothing, unshaken and alone,
A throne of silent echoes, a heart as hard as stone.

Yet echoes of that singing still haunt the air I breathe,
And whispers trace a hollow space, where certainty should be.