Out there, in the tantrum of the universe, existence croons softly to unraveling string.
The clock's carnival dance is held hostage by its own jangled whims, is it not?
A flicker severs bliss from grasping hands; these slipping grains of sand whisper secrets.
Voices echo within this suddenly adorned valley of self—
not with trumpets, nor with drums, but a whisper as of wind.
Shadows comfort you, even when realms bend to the lunatic's dreams.
Remember the derelict words?
True lunacy walks, unshod, upon luminous bridges that dared rise up from reason's ashes.
Illumination of mirage at dusk spins chants that time forgets, for how could it hold something so fleetingly real?
Tidal whispers leak through,
celibate scribbles on recruited canvases drenched in colors known only to the unseen.
Swing on imaginary pendulums, dance the truth away.