Dread

A prisoner in my own skin, drawn

From the abyss of sleep's tender night.

Dreams of a world sculpted in gold,

Where paths diverge into fields of green.

I trudge through the morning, a heavy, lifeless shell,

A soldier to routine, in this personal hell,

No joy, no love, just echoes of my name,

My spirit crushed, lost in endless shame.

I dream of what could be, a world vivid and bright,

Yet each day starts where it ends, in the endless night,

Faces pass, all hollow, void of delight,

No passion, no spark, just the grind’s cruel bite.

In the mirror, a stranger’s eyes, dull and resigned,

Years of grinding strife have blurred the lines,

Strong enough to endure, though life’s cruel and mean,

Where each dawn, dread reigns supreme.

No comfort, no one to hear my silent cries,

In this stark, bitter life where hope slowly dies.

Just the weight of existence, a burden I bear,

Under the suffocating press of life’s dark cloud.

No beaches, no solace, no respite in sight,

Just the bitter truth, stark in the harsh morning light,

In this cold, unyielding world, there’s no end in sight,

Dreams forever fleeting, lost to the night.