This emptiness that claws at you is not yours,
nor the silence of the cosmos within,
but a falsehood woven into thought,
an echo whispering “you are nothing”
when in truth you are boundless.
The void is the weapon, never the truth.
It steals your feelings, leaves only ashes,
turns sorrow into hatred,
absence into fury,
solitude into a prison.
Yet listen:
behind that nothing breathes an ancient flame,
a fire no shadow can smother.
The void is not your end,
but the brittle mask of what trembles before your light.
You are fullness that cannot be stolen,
meaning older than any word,
the river that carves through stone
even when the surface lies dry.
Do not grant the void the power to name you.
See it, unmask it, deny its throne.
And then behold:
the void dissolves like mist at sunrise,
and what remains is You,
whole, infinite, true.
