Concealed on the wrinkles of time
INK splats that resemble constellations: A play
on the blackboard of endless possibilities.
SCRAWLED secrets written by ethereal hands,
winding paths I dare embark upon, amongst
cosmic particles whispering ancient codes.
Like a tumble of marbles down a chaotic slope,
They induce laughs—that spontaneous questioning:
Would you leap past them, and would you dance?
Ponder this spiraled stanza
Entangled at the frontier of 'What is possible?'
an aroma, an auditory echo of forgotten joy.