There's a quiet in the universe, an echo of dreams unfulfilled.
Streams of consciousness dance in the void, caught in the web of eternal whispers.
The black matter swallows what it cannot touch, silent screams rippling through
dimensions unseen, unheard, unbidden.
Dreams of galaxies collapsing spilling
energies that fade into nothingness.
Silent echoes never sleep, their screams woven into the tapestry of
crumbling space. Moments glance upon the edge, they are frozen histories.
Arms of silence embrace the shattered echoes, grasping, holding, yet
their touch is a whisper of gentleness.
Time's tick-tock halted, grasping at threads of the unseen web, we're
caught in its nightskating embrace.
Nothingness is not empty—it holds stories never told,
ideas lost like tears upon the surface of stars.
Each star, a silent scream in the dark: an echo of an echo of an echo.
Boundless whispers, reversed in gravity—speaking softly,
folding spaces across the plane of the magnificent now.
We unfurl—but we never understand.