You once wished for understanding.
For hands clasped in mutual ruin.
But the world is a barren pantry—scraps fought over with broken teeth.
Sadness arrives in waves—relentless, indifferent.
You wonder: Were feelings ever meant to bridge the gap between us?
BUT NO!
What have I become? A question without answer. Introspection is a knife that slips—you carve deeper, but find only hollows. You built a throne of your solitude, crowned yourself ruler of nothing.
“Were our feelings ever meant to be the fragile bridge reaching across the distance between us?”
You once wished for understanding. For hands clasped in mutual ruin. But the world is a barren pantry—scraps fought over with broken teeth.
Love is a luxury for those who can afford to lose.
Nobility? A fairy tale told to children before they learn to bite.
Power is the only currency. And you, half-hearted banker, fumble the transaction.
What have I become? A question without answer. Introspection is a knife that slips—you carve deeper, but find only hollows. You built a throne of your solitude, crowned yourself ruler of nothing.
But in the quiet, when the game pauses—you’ll wonder. Was there ever another way?
