No heroes at the end of the world—
the true victors of war are the ones
who never marched into its jaws.
As we cut ourselves open, bleeding
for vampires dressed in flags, and their
banquet halls lit by the glow of decay.
Peasants pluck strings to soften the silence,
headlines stir the *** with trembling hands—
there's a choir of parasites spoon-feeding us
the intestines of the public.
Tell me—are you able to stomach it, or do
you swallow it whole and call it real news?
And still, the feast grows— tapeworms
engorge themselves, while the gorge between
heart and soul splits wider, and wider with every
swallowed promise. The architecture of ruin
rises brick by brick, each monument another tomb.
Love, too, becomes another empire of hunger:
crowns pressed down like executioner’s blades,
and those jewels that cut deeper than they shine.
To call someone King or Queen is to chain yourself
to their downfall, to wear loyalty like shackles,
and to find devotion rotting beneath their gold.
But here, at the end, there is only silence,
there is only dust, only the hollow crown—
and no heroes at the end of the world.