Book of Souls
Underneath unfathomable depths, choked by decaying thistle,
Where briny seas mix with putrid sentiment,
Creating cloudy waters of macabre melancholy,
Stand rusted arches, encompassing a thick, bleak, moldy door.
The smell of musk fills every molecule.
A slippery path of petrified rocks springs forth,
Creating a bewitching bridge between worlds.
Temptation courses through reincarnated pores,
But proceed with caution, as the siren call of eternal life beckons you in this perpetual loop.
For the path to the Book of Souls is riddled with sacrifices—
Sacrifices that masquerade as false hope,
Gut past lives, and eradicate future ones.
The butterfly effect holds far more power than you know.
So gingerly, take that step upon the stones.
Drown out the menacing laughs of the gods, old and new.
Divert your attention back to the passageway in front of you.
This time, you must get it right; you must make it to the door.
Your skin is turning paler, hair lackluster.
You can feel your soul tiring.
Who knows how many more chances you have until your existence completely fades away?
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