Funeral Expert пер

I bury people born in thought—
My mind's own crowd, though they are not.
When did I earn this funeral right—
To send off shadows dressed in light?

Great minds—so bright, yet never real,
They lived in me, in dream and zeal.
I wrote bestsellers on their grace,
Then mourned them each, face after face.

Disappointment’s quiet sting—
A paper crown, a phantom ring.
Rotting idols of my screams—
Dream charm, Hiroshima dreams.

A sharpened nerve, too raw to heal,
Where even touch feels sharp as steel.
Therapy whispers, leaves no trace—
Care is a knife in silk and lace.

A simple step for you—
for me, a twist and bruise.
I haven’t risen in so long.
And flight? I always lose.

What’s left of me?
Some crooked wit,
a smile stitched tight—
with lies in it.

They said: “Your freedom is your name.”
Did you ever see it? — Same.
“Subscribe to my channel,” dry command—
From “I’ll wreck you” to “Behind the Baseboard” land.

And me? What do I even say...
The soul is searching God its way.
It works alone, runs secret rounds—
Farewells and shifts, no need for bounds.

On Dante’s deck the rhythm spins,
I dance where even fire thins.
A burning ride through Samsara’s spin—
Return it now. Don’t pack a thing.