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In the Exisilium they thrive, Their lives take root in lies. The truth they cannot see, For what is real cannot be. I call them specters, for they choose what they see, Weaving illusions, crafting their own decree. Reality bends beneath their hand, The truth too harsh to understand. In me, their buried pain takes shape. A wound they’ve carried since youth’s escape. An image they cannot bear to face, So a goat of me they make. Slaughtered and left for dead, A stone beneath me,

When the world grows silent, the scream of expectation rises within me. In the hush, the enemy’s voice slithers close, hissing that I am not enough, not whole, not worthy of love. My chest tightens beneath the weight of those words. My breath falters, and my eyes fill until sight itself blurs. Then, without meaning to, I drift away. I find myself in a barren place. The ground is cold and colorless, the trees stripped bare, their branches reaching like bones toward a sun that