What whispers linger in the margins, where ink bleeds into nothingness?
Each mark a testament to thoughts unvoiced, unfelt
The margins, they are alive, yet bind the soul to invisibility.
Consider this: Is existence a series of notes taken hastily
Etched into pages of an unwritten book of eternity?
We chase the intangible, footprints leading nowhere
Each step a question, each question an echo.
The margins laugh as we walk, their laughter silent,
Binding us in a loop of undefined definitions.
Rearranging our footsteps into patterns, they dance:
In the margins of life, where the tangible meets the ghostly,
We find ourselves, or perhaps, we lose ourselves,
In doodles of destinies unfulfilled, paths unwoven,
And yet, there we are—unchanged, unchanging.
Wander through the echoes,
Hear the silent cries of what could have been,
or merely Dream of where you might go.