I walked the corridors of yesteryears,
Through a gate painted with clocks
No one dared to open.
The whispers told tales of tomorrow,
Yet revealed nothing in the moment passed.
Tethered to the relentless pull of gravity,
The Earth spun stories around its axis.
Each rotation a reminder, each leap second,
A paradoxical embrace of stasis and flux.
In a forgotten pocket of 2142,
I deciphered the code of moments suspended.
A tinker booted a rusty temporal machine:
"Adjust the dial to fit your loss," he chuckled.
I lined up memory like books on a shelf —
Chapters that never were, yet always are.
The laughter echoed through invisible strings,
Resonating across a tapestry of time.
Revelation is not a destination, but a journey.
Through kaleidoscopic intrigue and tangible myths,
We weave through paths without knowing our own.
Yet somehow, in the heart of every question,
Lies the seed of simple truth.