Oh, these voices won't let me sleep, The sun goes down, and still, I weep. Woes stand heavy upon my toes, Life feels forlorn—no fabled prose. With every mile, more stones arise, A path of ruin beneath dim skies. To silence chaos—would it be sin, Or just the truth this world is in? The deeper the urge, the darker I stand, A sinner carved by my own hand. And so I wonder—why exist? Why kneel? Why worship this abyss?