Echoes of Silence

In the absence of sound, I hear the whispers of forgotten dreams,

Their syllables woven into the fabric of what could have been.

A man once told me, beneath the shadow of the waning moon,

That silence is but a canvas for the lunatic's brush —

An artist creating storms in the stillness of the night.

Have you ever tasted the echo of a silence too loud to ignore?

It gnaws at the edges of sanity, seeking entrance,

Not through the ears, but through the marrow of existence.

There is no greater symphony than the one that plays in absence,

Conducted by the unseen hand of fate and folly alike.