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Traversing this realm of consciousness, where the sun is a stranger,
Some stuff their ears with gales of light, fleeing from themselves,
But there are souls whose song thrives under the moon, scorning the clear day,
Night sentinels, finding their chrysalis in the vast darkness to metamorphose.
They watch as hope crashes against their gates of dark thoughts,
And no echo resounds, just the deaf roar of the void.
Finding solace in barren landscapes, footprints in dust,
Where the sole melody is the stuttering murmur: "I too am here, in your absence."
In their pale dream, paradise is but a rusted garden covered in snow,
Stony bones, the ruins of communion with their smothering eternal ‘no’.
Their language is a dialect of subtle pains, a libation poured over a world fallen into ruin,
A desert of the spirit, where the sky shakes off the ashes of dismayed stars.
When luminous voices persist, they retreat into their inner equinox,
A cavern where echoes carry no words, only the accents of darkness.
Each breath is an incantation, the exhale - a full void,
And presence, a parallel world of embraced solitude, not shunned.
Thus, they stretch their arms towards abysses, yearning to embrace horizons where the blood of night rises,
In the most torn corners of their being, they find the purest sanctuaries.
Seeking comfort not in angelic melodies, but in choirs of mute murmurs,
They are seekers of divinity in chaos, mystics in the torn fabric of a hurting cosmos,
And in every fissure of life, they read not an epilogue of sadness, but bridgeheads to higher understanding.

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