Ten years old beneath the pale street light,

A map of dreams drawn in the fading night.

He built a world where everything was true,

A perfect form that only he outgrew.

The path was rough, the lessons sharp and cold,

A story starting, yet already old.

He learned to chase the shadow on the wall,

And built an idol, waiting for the fall.

The years spun fast, the mirror showed a man,

Still searching for the perfect hidden plan.

He found a face, a vision in the haze,

Reflected only in his lonely gaze.

He loved the phantom, spun from silver thread,

The perfect lover living in his head.

The cycle tightens, every single time,

Repeating flaws across the stretch of time.

A gilded cage, built brick by painful brick,

Making the same mistake until he’s sick.