In the paradox where shadows wear hats,
a voiceless echo rustles pages of forgotten dreams.
Bacteria have stitched metaphors into the fabric of early mornings.
Time, suspicious, glances through shattered mirrors.
Could a glimmer of graphite decipher your mind’s patterned implosion?
Ink-stained questions cycle through the echelons of silence.
The banana peel launches existentialism into oblivion, fruit metaphors untangled, Where do we go? They mutter like rusted machinery.
Magnificent radios whisper crumpled human dreams,
sold by brand-new shadows lingering on Tuesday’s news.
Check looped scars at the intersection of fate.