In the theatre of time, where fate plays coy,
Expectations rise like dawn — a fleeting joy.
Whispers of promise stitched in fragile thread,
A mirage of triumph where dreams are led.

Life, a merchant of loss wrapped in gold,
Bartering smiles for secrets untold.
Sisyphus still pushing his stone uphill,
A lesson etched in every shattered will.

What is gain, if not the ghost of desire?
A flickering flame — both warmth and pyre.
Midas touched, yet hollow within,
For every treasure is carved with sin.

Loss, the silent poet, carving lines unseen,
In every wrinkle where laughter has been.
Yet even in ruin, there blooms something rare —
A solace found in learning to repair.

Expectation — the cruelest muse,
A symphony played in delicate hues.
To want is to gamble, to hope is to fall,
Yet not to desire — is that living at all?

So drink from the cup, bitter and bright,
Know that gain is nothing without the night.
For only the broken truly understand,
That life is not owned — only held in hand.

These faces, everywhere—
shadows in the crowd.
They whisper, they doubt,
as if I am dust in the wind,
unworthy of the storm.

And them—who were they?
Once, they were my shelter,
my sanctuary, my sun.
Now, they are echoes in hollow halls,
leaving me an empty vessel,
a grave where love once bloomed.

To crave gold and power is not my way,
Or so I tell myself—
To live without fear—
Like the Leviathan, unseen, unknown,
Yet devouring all in silence.

I may be a beast of my own,
Or maybe that’s just what they say,
Yet a toothless fool,
Am I weak, or was I made to believe so?
A feeble truth,
Drowned within the lie.