Life a frozen darkness, only a small flame to be found, Hope that false longing, to be buried within a mound. The emptiness of substance, the only truth to be known. Those who know the soul, are both the world and alone. This wise inner child, the truest keeper of this foxes light, Holding the baby floofy fox, clutching it in tears at night. With little humanity to be found, only one dearest friend, The wilderness a tomb of suffering, is not really the end. Harshness and coldness of the world became my home, No searching to belong, and no need to endlessly roam. Death and despair of nothingness, over me has no hold, The icy grasp of winter, it truly no longer makes me cold. Huddled alone in the forest with the monstrous beasts, They became my true friends, with whom I hold feasts. Fake light of solar madness, the condition of the West, Tortured souls of normies, that just never will find rest.
