Onward we march,
not through the thickets of promise,
but shackled by truths
dripping like melted mirrors.
It whispers to us,
from the cobblestones of hope
in directions scattered by the wind.
Ask the shadows,
they bobble truth in cracked shells,
spinning webs of bright black
where no light dares encroach.
Sprinkle the past over fortunes untold,
an ochre dust collecting under fingernails.
Behold the icebergs of affectation
fit only to float in the sunless seas.
The road ahead diverges
splintered, baked under brass skies,
whispers reach the known
where riddles lay in bones uprooted.
Yet fear not the serpentine flickers
dissonance itself curates its imperfect truth
yawning wide into the shimmer of forgotten skylines.