#1:

Beneath the blackened vault of sky,
A rope descends—its fibers cry.
Through smoke and ash, it threads its way,
To acid pools where shadows lay.

Each rung, a tale of trembling lives,
Of toil that neither rests nor thrives.
The rope, alight with fire’s tongue,
Consumes the weak, ignites the young.

Above, the hands that built this plight,
Grip tight the wheel that feeds the night.
Their laughter stokes the burning air,
While voices plead through foul despair.

Yet down we go, the tether spins,
A vertical descent of sins.
The acid waits, a hungry maw,
To swallow hope, to feed its law.

And all who cling with trembling hand,
Fall rung by rung to molten land.
The rope unspools, a fatal thread—
A path to suffering, brightly fed.


#2:

They sit in towers, their hands adorned
With golden rings and hearts of scorn.
Beneath their feet, the world does churn—
Their fire, fed by all who burn.

The wheels they turn are made of steel,
But in their eyes, there’s none who feel.
For every spark, they claim it true,
A gift, a choice, for me, for you.

Their cries of justice mask the snare—
The rope descends; they’re unaware.
Or so they claim, their hearts made cold,
In search of more, and yet more gold.

They stoke the fire with lies so sweet,
Each word a chain beneath our feet.
Their words, like venom, fill the air—
Their wars, their work, their cruel affair.

From every ring and every crown,
They’ve forged the ropes that drag us down.
In sacred halls, they make their claim,
To build the world and stake their fame.

But in their eyes, the flicker dies—
The fire’s fed by endless lies.
Yet still, they turn the wheel of fate,
And laugh at all who beg for weight.


#3:

We stand in silence, eyes aglow,
Watching the rope as it twists low.
We pray, we hope, it stops its fall—
That this, at least, will not be all.

Each life, a thread upon the line,
Each breath, a dollar, a choice divine.
The rope, it burns—but we still wait,
Hoping the fire will slow its fate.

But deep inside, we know the truth—
The rope, the flame, the endless proof:
That those above, with hearts of stone,
Will never stop the fire’s throne.

Yet still we stand, as shadows grow,
Our voices hushed, our hearts all low.
We watch the rope, we feel the heat,
But never move our willing feet.

The acid rises, slow and sure—
We’re bound to burn, but still, we’re pure.
We’re innocent in mind and hand—
But broken souls will burn the land.

We sit, we wait, we dream and pray,
Hoping that the rope will fray.
But in the end, it’s not for us—
For none will care, and none will trust.


#4:

But in the flames, a voice did rise,
A crack, a scream, a sudden prize!
No longer bound by ropes of ash,
The burning souls began to lash.

The fire bites, the heat does sear,
But through the pain, they see the clear:
The rope, it does not need to burn—
The fire’s in our hands to turn.

The world is wrought with weight and woe,
But still, we fight, we fight to know
That we can break the ropes that bind,
We need not bow, we need not find.

In flames, the truth becomes our song—
The suffering’s never been so long.
But in the depths of fear and pain,
The rage emerges once again.

They’ve dragged us low, they’ve set the fire—
But now we rise, we rise—entire!
The rope may burn, the fire’s fed,
But not until we stand instead.

With burning eyes, we look below,
The fire’s rage, the endless woe.
Yet we stand firm, our hearts of steel,
To break the chain, to break the seal.

The fire does not cleanse—it burns,
But we, the flame, will twist and turn.
We light the dark with fire’s breath—
We fight the rope, we fight through death.


#5:

And then it came, the final blow,
The tipping point, the fire’s glow.
The rope, once taut, now snaps apart—
A breaking point, a beating heart.

We’ve seen the flames, we’ve felt the burn,
We’ve watched the world around us churn.
But now we stand, unbowed, unchained,
The years of suffering, unrestrained.

The fire’s thirst is never quenched,
The rope’s descent, forever clenched.
But in our hearts, a fire grows—
A flame that rises, fierce, it shows.

We tear the chains, we break the seal,
We know the fire’s rage is real.
But we are more, we are the flame—
We are the ones who will reclaim.

No longer bound by rope or flame,
No longer trapped in this cruel game.
We rise above, we tear the sky—
The ropes will burn, but we will fly.

In every tear, in every scream,
We carve the path to a new dream.
The rope may burn, the fire may rage,
But we are free, we’ve left the cage.


#6:

The rope, now burning, twists and snaps,
Its final thread begins to collapse.
No more a tether, no more a chain,
Its ash falls down like cleansing rain.

The acid pools, once hungry deep,
Now burn away the wounds we keep.
The flame, once fierce, now choked and still—
A hollow shell, a broken will.

We watch the wreck, the falling flame,
And know that all has been reclaimed.
No longer bound by fire’s grip,
No longer pulled by tyrants’ whip.

The operators fade from sight,
Their laughter gone, their grip of might.
For now we stand, the ropes undone—
A world remade beneath the sun.

The fire that scorched us into dust
Is quenched by courage, hope, and trust.
The rope has burned, but from the ash,
We rise—no more to bow or crash.

The future calls, its voice is clear,
A world reborn, a life sincere.
We break the chains, we free the sky—
The burning rope has passed us by.