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Deep, where silence screams,

A circle drawn in ashen dreams.

The wizards chant with tongues of flame.

In search of truth, they go insane.

The runes

Are carved

On granite bones.

Their spells like echoes cast in stone.

But wisdom burns with cursed light;

They climb—

Into the night.

The grimoire weeps,

Its pages torn,

By hands

That grasp what minds forlorn.

The truth's a void

Wrapped in disguise,

Yet still we cast and still we rise.

Staffs like spines of ancient trees,

We walk the dark with phantom keys.

Not gods, nor fools—

Just eyes that see,

The magic of absurdity.