Echoes of thoughts ricochet through corridors of time,
where strings of potential woven into the fabric of now,
whisper softly, unraveling, yet never complete.
In each unfinished refrain, a door stands ajar,
enticing us into mazes with no end—a garden of forking paths,
where choices circle, returning to embrace their own shadows.
The question lies not in crossing the finish line,
but in dancing within the race as a perpetual motion,
contemplating the wonder of an eternal horizon.
A Tapestry of Echoes
The Unspoken Words