In the silent corridors of ambition,
they walked, their footsteps merely echoes of aspirations,
all too hollow, all too proud.
The doors whispered secrets
that they had never wished to know,
and every twist promised was a gentle mocking
of paths never chosen.
At the end of each hall, a mirror,
reflecting not faces but
expectations draped in irony,
waiting in vain for a spotlight.
And so they tread, oh so deliberately,
on journeys untraveled,
but wholly recognized.
Commander of the Invisible
Here’s to the twisted destinations,
where nobody waits, yet all anticipate,
and every turn requires a passport
stamped in sarcasm and aged irony.
What a strange reverie,
this pantomime of as-yet-seen vistas,
narrating their stories in a voice too loud
for such empty chambers.
So forward they march, onwards and upwards,
past the mirage of presence,
into the waiting unknown (again).
Externalities embraced, the architects of emptiness continue
their walk through corridors,
now painted in shades of apathy
and wistfulness.
Where will the twists lead,
if not here or there,
but to the inevitable
home of the ever-curious?