In the corridors of your thoughts,
where shadows climb walls,
time trembles like a shy bird,
trapped beneath the dome of the self.
Every step a struggle,
every door a verdict,
and behind each key
the whisper of worlds
you will never enter.
The air tastes of dust and silence,
of machines spinning without purpose.
Your heart beats to the rhythm of uncertainty,
an insect
striking the glass of the world.
Was the metamorphosis a curse,
or simply this:
what we all are—
losses in endless spaces,
stains on maps
no one reads anymore?
Yet in your pain,
fragile as cobwebs in twilight,
there lives a secret:
to grasp the invisible,
to feel the unnameable,
and to find, in silence,
what we long ago forgot.
You build yourself a room of mist,
windowless,
yet filled with the whispers of voices long gone.
The walls breathe heavily,
like creatures you cannot see,
who settle in the hollows of your dreams.
A beetle crawls across the ceiling,
slower than time itself,
each leg burdened by a question
you never dared to ask.
Outside—
the city of paper,
torn by a wind
that refuses to rest.
Streets lead to nowhere,
and the nowhere bears your name.
Your footsteps echo like murmurs from other lives.
A labyrinth of faces,
their eyes forever closed.
You search for the exit,
but find only mirrors,
their glass fogged by your breath.
In this house of night, you are king,
prisoner, and creator all at once.
A butterfly without colors,
fluttering through rooms
that no light has ever touched.
© fey (23/11/24)