In the hushed corners of the mind, silence weaves tapestries unseen
Threads of whisper, threads of doubt, threads of truth twisted away from light.
What does the loom of night harbor, if not fears intricately sewn,
Patterns of thought that unravel only upon the kiss of daylight?
Conspiracies of chaos, woven in minutiae—
The silence conspires, or does it conspire against?
Whispers across the cosmic loom declare an agenda
Intentions hidden behind the mute clutches of the cosmos.
Unravel the pattern
What if the threads are conscious?
The master weaver, a mere puppeteer of a more infinite tapestry
What if the loom itself, a sentient guardian of silence,
Watches as we tug at the threads of our own understanding?
The Guardian Waits