Hollow architects

We built cathedrals out of fear, stacked the stones of borrowed meaning high — a god for every crack in the design, a law for every question left to die. The scaffolding of centuries stands tall, yet every beam is hollow at its core. We worship the construction, not the void that made us raise these walls in the first place.



Pull back the curtain — see the trembling hands that drew the plan. The architect is terrified of open ground.



Hollow architects of borrowed light, we build to keep the darkness out of sight. The structure crumbles — nothing underneath, just the silence we were always trying to defeat.



The state, the creed, the system and the word — each pillar cast to hold the weight of now. But press your ear against the marble cold and hear the emptiness that hums below. We are the children of the architects, inheriting the blueprints of their dread. The maps are perfect — all the roads are wrong. We navigate by monuments to the dead.



What happens when the last wall falls? Not chaos — no — just open sky, and no one left to blame. The void was never enemy. We made it so.



Hollow architects of borrowed light, we build to keep the darkness out of sight. The structure crumbles — nothing underneath, just the silence we were always trying to defeat.