Sixteen years of silence carved in black,
A void where shadows linger, thick as tar,
The Cure returned, a specter trailing back,
To sing of lost worlds, and the scars of stars.
Depeche, meanwhile, kept the clock in spin,
Their gears grinding, turning, time’s soft waltz.
Iterative whispers, where noise had been,
Polished mirrors reflecting past assaults.
Smith’s lament, a chasm deep and wide,
Bleeds fresh from wounds that time could never seal.
Their gothic hymns, a requiem to guide
Through mourning’s labyrinth, to truths surreal.
And yet, Depeche embraced the tide of years,
Each album stacked like bricks upon their wall.
A steady march, a symphony of gears,
Chasing echoes through the digital sprawl.
Where Cure's return is death kissed by the light,
Depeche hums neon, humming in the haze—
An endless pulse that stutters through the night,
Reborn, again, in labyrinthine maze.
Two paths: one absent, brooding in the gloom,
The other endless, weaving threads of fate.
The Cure, a ghost revived from timeless tomb,
Depeche, a clock, rewound, yet never late.