My heart’s a black altar, my soul’s a spent candle, I used to ride like a god now I’m just a scandal. The pain’s a serpent, coiled ‘round my ribs, so fatal, I can’t outrun the reaper, not even with a ritual. My brain’s a ouija board, my body’s the planchette, Sometimes I wonder if the bullet’s the only silhouette. Morning migraines,Hecate’s hammer to my skull, marajuana to summon the void, but the void’s already full. Spinal tap, MRI—modern divination, More thc to “heal” me, just another damn incantation. Side effects? A curse from the Demiurge’s hand, I stare in the mirror, see the Archon’s brand. But my son won’t kneel to their false light’s deceit, Won’t let him drown in the illusion of defeat. Why me? The cosmos laughs, “Why not?” Prayers rise like smoke do the gods even give a f00k? I carved my virtue in the flesh of the world, But life’s a rusted blade, and I’m the wood it’s hurled. Pull myself up by my bootstraps? A joke from the blind, I scream in the abyss—it just hands me a sign: “Try harder, mortal. The darkness is divine.”