Where To Go When There's Nothing Left

Minds that foretell fabricated prophecies should be scorched,
Same fate should be met by hearts that embolden futile sentiments,
Would it be immoral if I were to spite the creator for his astonishingly intricate creation we know as ‘life’ that we ALL sometime feel like it’s botched?
If so, can it be palpably corroborated that HIS creation is still part of HIS premeditated alignment.

Why should it end when it just began?
And why does it hurt so severely if it is the source of happiness?
Love is a sorcerer that feeds off anyone’s desires just to Leave them Lost and Lonely, a perfectly conjured plan,
An ironic plot of how happiness becomes unhappiness.
A simile in metaphoric clothing,
So was he, the wolf that stole and ran with my basket full of trust, love, reassurance and secrets.
A crime I cannot report as I bestowed it upon myself, see, that’s the thing,
Love is sacrificial in several aspects, but thee profoundest of them all is one that leaves you with regrets, bruises and stitches.

Now here I am, all alone,
With thoughts encouraged by the devil,
An ugly beast in black drapes convinced clear as day that there’s no such thing as “the one”,
In the list of iniquities, love is the epitome of pure vile.

In me is a vacant castle; abandoned, dark and cold,
With no glimpse of enlightenment to creep through.