Cold Dead Place

no gods,
no masters,
no mystics,
no myths,
just the stench
of last night's liquor
on my breath
as I stumble
through my jobs
concrete insanity.

no angels,
no demons,
no spirits,
no saints,
just the hollow echo
of my footsteps
in the abandoned alleyways
of my mind,
where the only prayer
is the one I whisper
to myself
in the mirror's cold gaze.

no crystals,
no tarot,
no astrology,
just the hard math
of my own making
the calculus of cause
and effect
where the only magic
is the will
to get out of bed
and face the day.

no faith,
no hope,
no charity,
just the brutal arithmetic
of existence
where the only smile
is the one I forge
in the fire of my own
self-reliance,
where the only salvation
is the one I create.

no incense,
no candles,
no sacred texts,
just the stark light
of my own reason,
where the only truth
is the one I uncover
in the dirt and grime
of my own experience
where the only wisdom
is the one I earn.

no gurus,
no sages,
no prophets,
no seers,
just the quiet desperation
of my own eyes
staring back at me
from the mirror's glass,
where the only prophecy
is the one I write
in the ink
of my own blood and sweat

no heavens,
no hells,
no afterlives,
just the hard earth beneath
my feet,
where the only judgment
is the one I pass
on myself in the silence
of my own heart,
where the only redemption
is the one I claim.

no miracles,
no wonders,
no magic spells
just the brute force
of my own willpower,
where the only miracle
is the one I make
in the crucible of my own
self-doubt,
where the only wonder
is the one I find
in the depths of my own
resilience.

no prayers,
no supplications,
no alms,
just the cold comfort
of my own resolve
where the only answer
is the one I give
to myself in
the darkness of my own thoughts,
where the only comfort
is the one I find
in the steel cage
of my own self-reliance.