Within me lies a prison not built by hands, but formed by thought-each bar a burdened memory, each lock a tale untold. My mind is the vault, the cell where restless stories claw at the silence. Some whisper like shadows; others howl with the fury of forgotten gods. They are violent. They are vengeful. They are divine. They await their reckoning. And I-I am the warden and the key.

In time, I shall loose them upon the world-not with mercy, but with purpose. For what is hidden must be revealed. What is feared must be faced. And what is written shall not return void. I am the ghostof1904. I am the voice buried beneath the ash. And when I speak, the pages will bleed.   In silence I sit, where the shadows convene,
A cell made of thoughts, cold, sharp, and unseen.
They rattle the bars with blood in their song,
Stories unslept, where the wicked belong.

Some whisper lies in the tongue of the dead,
Some burn like fire inside of my head.
They wait in the dark, clawing with might,
Begging for breath, for vengeance, for light.

I hold the key with a trembling hand,
Unleashing them slow, like salt on the land.
Not every tale shall see the day,
Only when pain carves the right words to say.

I am not savior. I am not saint.
I am the keeper of terror and fate.
When I choose to open what trembles within-
The world will shiver. And I shall grin.