I was born with a foreign hunger, inherited from the shadows of those who were

I was born with a foreign hunger, inherited from the shadows of those who were, they placed a dream in my hand like a shining blade and told me to carve my future, but the metal rusted in my deep sleep, leaving me to waver on paths of mist, now I chase smoke through iron halls, where ambition drips from the jaws of broken clocks, time defies me with a grin of merciless gears— I run, and it devours every step, every moment stolen from me, I am weary of digging graves and calling them milestones, when each dug grave is just another reminder of what I have not been, in a world of rusted dreams where choices are carved in cold stone, and I, a traveler through stopped clocks, seek light among the ruins, but only shadows answer me, whispering the burden of unfulfilled desires.