He walks alone where roads divide, where darkness claims the sky, A crossroads, a home to deals made, where the birds dare not fly. A gallows tree, the final path, its branches stretch like knives, He stops beneath and mutters low: "I've lived a thousand lives." He ties a rope with steady hands, then lifts it to the limb, No fear within his weathered face, no plea to seraphim. He climbs the tree, the wind stands still, the world begins to numb— He speaks no words, just lets it slip, and waits for death to come. But death does not arrive that night, nor cuts the cord with grace— Instead the stars blink out one by one and vanish into space. The earth tilts sideways, light bends in, blood rushes to his mind— And every dream that was ever had, play out to him combined. He does not die. He does not live. He drifts between the two, His thoughts, a gnarl unfolding, revealing what is true. No god arrives, no demons crawl, no voice to explain the rite— A cascade of aspirations, of visions, his senses: a soul-wright. He sees himself in other lives, in beggars, queens, and thieves, Each moment expands upon the line that time itself conceives. Each lie he told, each wound he dealt, returns as woven thread— Not as a curse, but quiet proof of every path he tread. The martyr and the cynic both, the liar and the priest, The things he lost, the truths he feared, the monster and the feast. Each blade he ducked, each hand he shook, now drips into the stream— Each one a mask he used to wear, now part of some great dream. His body slack, his vision raw, the cord begins to glow, The gallows tree breaks into flame, yet nothing burns below. The fire climbs but offers warmth, no pain to match its hue— He cries, not out of sorrow, but because he finally knew. He’s not a man, but many lives...all tangled, stitched, and spun, Each hung upon a different tree, beneath a different sun. No path to walk, no fight to win, no throne to justify— Just one still breath where all things wait, then finally pass by. The rope goes slack, the world resumes, he drops into the dirt— No wound upon his ankles or neck, no scar, no lash, no hurt. But in his eyes, a something strange, a quiet kind of flame— The knowing look of one who changed, who will never be the same. He walks again, the same old road, but now the world before him shifts, Each leaf a note, each step a journey, each breath a treasured gift. [music builds] The man before had sought to end, but found the start instead— A soul that lives... A mind now free... A song sung only by the dead. He walks again, the same old road, but now the world before him shifts, Each leaf a note, each step a journey, each breath a treasured gift. [music builds] The man before had sought to end, but found the start instead— A soul that lives... A mind now free... A song sung only by the dead.
