Somewhere between the whisper of the two clocks, Time forgot its directions, standing still in a landscape of dreams enterprising thoughts.
Should one choose to follow the rustling path, The boulders that never roll uphill, Or the silhouettes that dissolve before the dawn... The journey is not in the destination, For destination contracts laughter into frowns.
Have you ever questioned the purpose of the purpose? A circle in the contemplation pond ripples not for conclusions, But in the absence of beginnings and endings... How absurdly it rewards the eye with emptiness.
Absurdity rides tandem bicycles with logic, illuminated by lanterns of paradox. Yet, in this inside-out sun, One learns to dance not knowing the right foot from the left.
A radio crackles nonsensical frequencies under the ocean of expectations, And therein lies the serenade of unapologetic truths, Echoes that say nothing and everything at once.
Or perhaps the path leads to an inner whisper, or an unexpected encounter with something mildy interesting.