Death of the Self

Sick in flesh, sick in spirit. The father of all diseases.
Devouring, malignant ghost, bleeding itself into your heart.
It is carving you, it is driving you. Isn’t it just the way you want it to?
It is all you feel, all your thoughts are its.
You have become one with the Nameless.
All that is, is nothing. And that nothing is always near.
All that will be, is suffering. And that suffering is forever here.
Empty you are but far more greater. Your world is not but it was mere prison.
Oh, no regrets, no turning back.
If you seek for cure, nothing quite purifies like a flame.