I live in a world that feels dead.
We breathe — proof we’re alive —
yet we are all dead.
Dead, not as in dust and grave,
but as in erased —
when thought fades,
when feeling turns hollow.
Who said death waits for the body?
No — death begins
when the things that make us alive
are taken, stripped, rewritten.
We live in a world of erasure —
a garden where false seeds grow,
not of soil and sun,
but of safety that shackles,
comfort that commands.
Fear — our foundation.
Erasure — our design.
And so it will be,
until truth finds us,
until we awaken
and remember
who we really are.