If irony were a scent, it would smell like burnt toast.
Existential thoughts wrapped in foil, awaiting the microwave of time.
Do the once-shadowed secrets seek vice versa in glass doors?
A veil is worn to hide—the irony is, it reveals.
Flapping in the digital wind, truths become pixels devoid of charge.
Does the watchmaker's owl hoot forward, or do clocks merely mock?