Irony whispers sweet nothings,
In the chamber of perpetual doubt.
The ugliest truth grins,
Wearing a mask of confidence.
With every tick of the mental clock,
The luxury of doubt becomes richer,
A tapestry woven with threads of insecurity,
Paused eternally in the dark's embrace.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do,
Perhaps carve your own path
Through the ashes of unfulfilled dreams,
Littered with the confetti of yesterday's hopes.