No lines to follow,
no script to betray,
only ink that drifts,
escaping the page.
I scatter words like ashes,
letters spiraling upward,
fading into stars,
where meaning dissolves.
Whispers curl, half-formed,
sentences shatter like glass,
shards floating through air,
refusing to land.
The words hesitates,
caught between thought and breath,
where shadows of ideas
linger, untouchable.
Maps tear themselves apart,
directions bending backward,
leading to nowhere,
or somewhere I can’t name.
I try to follow,
chasing echoes of phrases,
but they slip away,
laughing without sound.
I can’t give it shape,
these ghosts of intention,
no end, no plan,
only words that won’t stay.
No comments:
Post a Comment