Dementia

 

                                                    Dementia 

Dementia, silent tyrant, invades me like a dense mist that seeps into the very bones of the soul.
It steals my reasoning with invisible fingers, and memory fades like ink dissolving in the rain of time.
Emotions, once mine, now belong to you — shadowed vines winding around my chest, dimming clarity with the sweet poison of illusion.

Reality and fantasy blend like molten metal in the forge of an uncertain destiny.

Despair, that cruel arcane force, lays itself over me like a mantle of thorns, wounding the essence that still dares to fight.
I am a warrior of flesh and spirit, and even before the phantom of madness, I seek the shores of certainty — a place where the sun still remembers my name.

Resilience: the word that pulses in my blood.
The key that opens portals to realms where peace reigns, where the horizons are made of light and silence, and the spirit dances freely among forgotten constellations.

The wind, accomplice to my sorrow, brushes my face like jasmine petals scattered at twilight.
I walk across mountains of stone and shadow, yet I do not break —
for my core is made of fire and truth.
With an uncovered heart, I confront this incoherence that torments me, allowing truth to embrace me like butterflies resting upon the soul and lifting it toward the heavens.

The abstract runs through my veins like molten fire — anger, longing, remembrance.
I reach for you, yet you remain a sealed enigma, pragmatic, distant, owner of nothing, colored by none.

Still, I believe this:
my eyes will mirror the future, even if the present lies as an inert body on the verge of implosion.

Illusion shatters.
Reality, bare and unyielding, rises before me like an oracle of uncertainties.
Yet I trust the divine.
I believe that triumph belongs to the bold,
while the faint‑hearted merely dream within the shadows of fear.