Two worlds beyond each other.
Twisted dimensions of thoughts.
The brief shine of unrealism is lost...

Unending and meaningless.
A dream among the dreams.
Adaptation to life...a beast on dormant.

How to paint a picture with no colours, that were drowned in the space of mind?
The sounds of emptiness, the content of the words blind.
Who is the carrier of that water (to the well) that rinses humanity?
...the silent moans of wind, the wolf in a sheep.

"Are these stairs of yours to the (deepest) hell created by someone else?
...alone screaming for memories which hooks tears your flesh."

Still this is all that you have scraped by yourself.
Reality as a mirror that reflects a burned soul.

Why do I bleed?

Oh, how tempting the vision of end is.
Just a step further, a pace to go.
I wonder on the threshold of this finality
is the becoming era just another dungeon.