Numbness courses through my spine as I vision life and all that I've adored,
A maze of grandiosity, where paths are plagued by an infested horde.
A crimson beacon straight ahead consumes my field of vision,
A hypnotic wave that commandeers, influencing each decision.

I exist beneath the red light's glow, entranced and docile,
When distractions vie for my attention, I grow hostile.
This light is my guide, the beacon I shall seek,
For it embodies righteousness, the pinnacle, the ethical peak.

In its radiance, I find my path, a journey pure and bright,
Yet shadows whisper doubts, obscuring the guiding light.
They remind me of my inborn aspirations, drifting like a forgotten stream,
The light, though graceful, ensnares my soul in a deceptive scheme.

I march in step, my will subdued, beneath this scarlet glare,
A puppet to its every whim, my spirit in despair.
The laid pathway, a siren's call I once did heed,
Raises an omnipresent voice, planting a seed of doubt, a need.

Overwhelmed by the deafening noises, I fall to my knees,
I can neither follow the light nor do what the voices please.
A torrent of liquid nitrogen cascades over my skin,
My fingertips numb, the signs of frostbite setting in.

I close my eyes, pining for the soothing quietude of the dark,
My fingers entwined, the intensity of my grip leaving an indelible mark.
The cold, the numbness, the stillness, the excruciating pain,
Infiltrate my body, spreading insidiously, coursing through every vein.

As I remain there, I question my every move and thought,
The voices, the resistance, all for naught.
The damage is done, the beacon has won,
For here I am, moving towards it—to my head, a pointing gun.