The Echo Chamber of Whispers

In the silent corridor of midnight thoughts,
voices collide against the walls of righteousness,
not landing where intended, but drifting like leaves upon the current of an unseen river.

Amid forgotten corridors,
the air remembers stories it ought not to bear.
Did the fog whisper a name,
or did it merely echo a question unasked?

Time, the playful trickster,
does not heed to clocks nor calendars;
it measures life in the bitter cups of tea
left cold on neglected tables.

And what of existence, but an artist blinded,
spilling paint on the canvas of unintended dreams?
A masterpiece, or mess, titled titled not,
judged by none and witnessed by all.

Outside, a murmur survives on open winds,
carrying tales of jubilation where silence reigned;
tales of infinite laughter echoing in void,
singing songs of solitude born out of togetherness.

Dance, a series of tactical defenestration,
where the heart flings itself to freedom only to land,
gracefully or awkwardly, upon the eternal now.