Shadows linger at the edges of sanity
Where whispers collide with echoes of absence
The road less traveled by forks in the mist
A phantom hitchhiker waves with hollow eyes
Truth, the ugliest of all masks,
Worn by those who dare to breathe in the void.
It chokes on its beauty, weeping silence,
While the moon hides behind a veil of ash.
In the garden of uncertain bloom,
Flowers grow from the rust of forgotten promises.
They speak in languages only the mad understand,
Their petals bleeding colors unseen by daylight.
Dreams shatter like glass upon the altar,
Of a faith unspoken yet deeply known.
Each shard reflects the universe's laughter,
A cosmic joke that knows no punchline.
"What was, what is, what might be? The whispers know."