Epilogue

I tore down the house I built with care,

Brick by brick in hungry despair.

Not for gold, nor love, nor light—

Just to feel the thrill of fight.

I lit the match with shaking hands,

Watched it burn like shifting sands.

Smoke curled sweet with hollow pride,

As if ruin made me feel alive.

I broke the mirror, blurred my face,

Called it freedom, named it grace.

But freedom without purpose fades—

Like laughter lost in empty caves.

I chased the storm, I cursed the rain,

Craved the echo more than pain.

But silence came, a colder guest,

And laid its head upon my chest.

Now I sit among the dust,

Nothing left, and none to trust.

A crown of ash, a throne of ache,

A soul undone for nothing’s sake.

I sift the rubble with bare hands,

Marking time in ashen strands.

No phoenix stirs, no new day breaks—

Just wind that howls for old mistakes.

A whisper threads the broken beams,

A ghost of all my better dreams.

I strain to hear what once was mine—

A voice gone thin, like stretched-out twine.

Could I rebuild with scorched regret?

Or is the past too charred to fret?

Each scar a nail, each breath a plea,

Each memory a mutiny.

Yet in the hush, a heartbeat stays—

Too soft for pride, too worn for praise.

Still, it drums a quiet call—

Not to rise, but not to fall.