[Verse 1]
The walls breathe with me,
slow… tired… cracking.
Unpaid bills curl like
dead leaves on the table.
My kids’ voices fade
like they were never mine —
memories dissolving
in the sink with the dishes.
My wife moves through the house
like a ghost I can’t touch,
two shadows sharing air
but never a heartbeat.
Every room echoes
with the man I used to be.
Now I’m just the outline
of a life collapsing.
[Chorus]
Tell me—
do I burn out in a blaze,
let the sky swallow the noise,
let the world feel my exit
like thunder ripping the night?
Or do I drift away silent,
like rain sliding off windows,
disappearing so smoothly
they don’t notice I’m gone?
Which ending fits
a man already half-vanished?
[Verse 2]
Paychecks bleed thin,
and I bleed with them.
Hope rattles loose
like a bolt in the frame.
Cold meals sit untouched,
and so do I —
a stranger haunting his own kitchen.
Sleep won’t come.
It circles above me
like a vulture waiting
to pick clean the last of me.
Even God looks away
when I talk to the ceiling.
Maybe I’m speaking the language
of the forgotten.
[Bridge]
But in the ruins,
some spark twitches —
a stubborn ember
refusing extinction.
Whispers rise from the dust:
“Not yet.
Not like this.”
Maybe the darkness
ain’t an ending —
maybe it’s a womb,
a place to rebuild
broken men from shadow.
[Final Chorus]
I won’t combust for spectacle,
won’t vanish for convenience.
I’ll breathe in this night,
let it carve its lessons deep.
If I’m meant to go,
it won’t be as ruin —
but as something
that learned to crawl
out of its own grave.
Rezin
