"Imitation is devotion," they said—

but what’s devotion without soul?

You’re not haunted.

You’re just hollow._

In every echo, they trace your ghost,

Wearing your scars like seasonal trends.

They breathe your silence,

Then spit it back

As if their shame could taste like art.

You watched them rise,

Wearing masks carved from your spine—

And all the while,

They hoped no one would recognize the theft in their shine.

They speak in your cadence,

But never your truth.

They dance in shadows you built

Just to hide from your proof.

Their craft, a collage of stolen fire—

But fire knows its origin.

You copy and cling to my shadow,

Fearing my light will expose you.

But let me tell you:

Your camouflage deceives no one.

You mimic the wounds,

But not the war.

You're dressed in thunder,

But never heard the storm.

They bow to hollow thrones

Built from broken mirrors.

They chant your verses,

But their lips never bled.

You gave them a voice—

They gave you a silence.

Now let the silence scream.

Let the bells toll again.

You copy and cling to my shadow,

But the darkness you steal is too bright for your soul.

No borrowed mask survives the flame.

You forged your crown from someone else's bones—

But you’ll never wear the throne.

“True art... bleeds.”

And yours...

never did.