In the tremulous clasp of this gravid moment,
our breaths—mere whispers—
Falter against the adamant cheek of
the boundless, enduring cosmos.

We are an ephemeral sparks,
A flicker in the sigh of aeons,
Our lives but delicate filigree on
the iron canvas of existence.

Beneath the spectral gaze of distant,
igneous stars,
we roam— a transient silhouetropolitan
tracing shadows across time's silent
thoroughfare,
our form, a fragile vestibule of quivering
hopes,
Enunciates a parched dialect in the library
of the Universe.

we are just brittle parchments inked in
the fleeting pigment of dreams— Are
soliloquies spoken softly in the theatre of
the infinite.

How often do we pause, our narratives
interrupted,
By the ancient tongue of the wind or
the somber soliloquy of the sea—
These lasting entities that address us
with the calm cadence of immortals,
Narrating tales too vast for our infant
comprehension.

Within the cryptic alleys of our existence,
carved between the chasms of
what is and could be;
There, in the whispered intimacy of
minute to monumental,
we conjure the self—both scribe and
scripture.
Dissecting our haunts like verses
buried beneath layers of metaphoric
sediments,

Are we not but another line in the
epic drafted by the universe?
A fleeting motif in the grand tapestry
that beholds every gaze;

Does this not render us—finite, feeble
poets— To versifiers delineating shadows
on Plato's allegorical wall?
Nature, the ceaseless scribe,
scripts in the language of mountains and
rivers,
Composing until the sea's last poem
is whispered into the void...

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