꧁𓊈𒆜L͓̽A͓̽S͓̽ ͓̽V͓̽E͓̽G͓̽A͓̽S͓̽𒆜𓊉꧂

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ЩΉΛƬΣVΣЯv

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Acting GodFather Chairman of Las Vegas

Indifference

Right Hand: BadxWolf & Left Hand: Bollix

Don of Paradise

 Oblivion of Renacer

Right Hand: Jezabel & Left Hand: Mr_Cat

The Eternal Death Waltz

I shouted into an empty room—

a hollow cathedral of echoes—
and swore I would defeat the forces of evil.

For ten long years,
the darkness answered.
It came to collect its due—
with trembling hands,
with fever,
with the slow corrosion of my mind.

I learned that there are no victors
in the war of flesh and spirit—
only casualties
and those who survive long enough
to understand.

It was never David versus Goliath.
It was a pendulum,
swinging through the void,
dragging both heaven and hell in its wake.

The brighter the light burned,
the blacker the shadow it carved.
Each revelation a wound,
each truth a tombstone.

I realized: I am both the fire and the ash.
I am the serpent in the garden,
the shadow behind the throne,
the chaos in every choice,
the echo of every ending.
To kill the darkness outside me,
I must confront the darkness inside me.

In the dimly lit corners of my mind,
I tread the stage others have set,
a marionette caught in webs of praise,
adorned with facades sewn from their laughter.
I waltz in this carnival of faces,
juggling burdens cloaked as stars,
pieced together from fragments not mine,
lost pieces of a once-whole truth.

Their views, a stone tied to my feet,
drag me into seas of second-guessing,
battling tides of sameness,
capsized by waves of critique.
My inner light wanes and wavers,
eclipsed in this relentless tempest,
a keeper of beacons, adrift,
steering vessels toward foreign docks.

Transformed into a creature of pleasing,
I blur into shades of their yearning,
a portrait brushed with hues of concession,
my own spectrum fading into the background.
In my quest to be their hero,
I lay myself upon the altar,
gifting pieces of my essence,
submerged in their sea of expectancy.

Every gesture of goodwill, a hidden thorn,
leaking life in the guise of nobility,
a sacrifice at the altar of acclaim,
lost in the noise of relentless demands.
Who am I in this labyrinth of reflections?
Images twisted to suit their fancy,
a collage of splintered glass,
a stranger in my own eyes.
My river of self has dwindled,
a barren wasteland of identity lies within,
a phantom of their fantasies,
waning under the burden of their mirages.

It was never mine to win.
It was an eternal dance—
and the more I resisted,
the floor beneath me fractured.
The more I cursed my faltering steps,
the heavier the darkness became.

So I learned to loosen my grip,
to let the music move through me,
even when it sounded like mourning.

Because this is the dance—
the one that separates us
from angels, from demons, from gods.

And in the silence between the beats,
I remember:
we are not celestial.
We are not divine.
We are human beings—
fragile, fevered,
and beautifully haunted.

Never forget the hands that shaped you, the voices that called your name— for without remembrance, we drift like ash into the silent void, swallowed by shadows, forgotten by time.

~RIP~

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