In shadows of unconscious deep, the ego hides, A silent puppeteer it presides. From conscious eyes it seeks disguise, Yet craves the world's admiring prize.
A god it sculpts of fleeting worth, And builds its status on this earth. With self-made rules, a twisted creed, It chases glory, sows the seed…
Of endless games for fleeting gain, Where hearts grow cold and souls feel pain. A hollow crown, a pyre of pride, Where victory's touch leaves no thing inside.
In stagnant pools of shared belief, Ego finds solace and relief. A passive dance, a collective game, Where comfort reigns, but dreams decease.
No fertile ground found amidst. A veil they spin, Hiding the truth that lies within. For true ascent, a path unseen, Lies not in games, but behind the scene.