Time marches on—unyielding, blind, and deaf to cries.
Is it a circle, infinite? Does God linger, watching beyond its edge?
Within the ticking gears of clocks is the slow erosion of progress.
Each fleeting second gnaws at my skin,
Tearing me closer, closer—ever nearer to the boundless emptiness.

The threads of the Fates are spun without mercy.
Each relentless minute lashes like a whip, unwavering.
A yawning abyss lurks beneath every fragile smile,
Its mouth is wide, ready to consume me
And though I scream, my voice is swallowed by the stillness,
Only the dark, divine malevolence listens.