They speak of beginnings—a sacred delight,
Newborns who wail at the break of first light.
They eulogize endings with practiced weight,
As if death were a doorway, not nature’s last gate.
But between every cradle and final repose
Lurks the quiet machinery where terror grows.

The center wears neckties and lipstick, a grin,
Polite social armor with dread tucked within.
Smiles stretch taut under sterile office light,
Where dreams dissolve quietly, out of plain sight.
A home with a mortgage, a car with a loan,
A schedule crammed full—yet the void makes itself known.

Ambition mutates to patterns and files,
Desire shelved in silence, romance lost to miles.
We anchor to errands, we schedule our mirth,
We trade all our wonder for “practical worth.”
Yet somewhere beneath, the great stillness awakes—
The shadow in the hallway that never forsakes.

It’s not rage or collapse, not climax nor the grave,
But the slow fermentation of dreams you couldn’t save.
It’s birthdays unnoticed and dinners grown cold,
It’s work emails answered while your child grows old.
It’s logging the steps but forgetting to dance,
A slow-motion sinking dressed up as “advance.”

No malice, no monster, no dripping red hand,
Just minutes like soldiers obeying command.
We swallow routine like a bitter white pill,
Numb to the silence, compliant and still.
Joy is postponed, then misplaced on the way,
Buried beneath what we meant to say.

Midlife arrives quietly, veiled in routine,
Where identity dissolves in the blue-lit screen.
We sing lullabies to ambitions we outgrew,
Weep for the books that we never got through.
The horrors are hidden—no scream, just a sigh,
As you forget who you were and don’t question why.

Even pleasure turns clinical, fervor wears thin,
Love is a ledger you balance within.
We say “I’m fine” like a national hymn,
While joy leaks away at the industry’s whim.
Aging begins not in wrinkle or yawn,
But the morning you rise and the wonder is gone.

Tablets dissolve under a tongue grown indifferent,
Relief laced through veins in a plastic-wrapped instant.
Sterile numbness creeps in, tracing lines up your arm,
Turning bright pain to static with a chemical charm.
Comfort is measured in milligrams met,
Yet the world blurs and grays in a hush of regret.

They say Death is a thief, but I contest that line—
He simply collects what we yielded in time.
It’s Life who embezzled, who slipped in unseen—
Who dulled us with comfort on the digital screen.
What murders the soul is not blade nor disease,
But the smile you wear while it quietly leaves.

So don’t fear the ending, or womb’s mystic start.
But the middle, where entropy mimics the heart.
It’s here where the terror is dressed to admire—
The mannequin grin, the slow soul-burning pyre.