The clock ticks, not a sound, yet felt in bones.
Imagine the corridors of thoughts, vast and empty.
Between heartbeats, the space dances,
Filling with ghosts of unspoken words,
Fleeting as shadows cast by a single candle.
The heart, like a drummer, keeps the rhythm.
In the quiet, the whispers of the methoderatrum speak:
What is a thought but a flicker in the void?
A bird's shadow across an empty sky.