quiet pollen
At the edge of a forgotten day, where first light battles night,
We rise, unseeing, clutching dreams too brittle for the sun—
In the mirror of our making, folly dances in our sight,
A silent hymn to errors born when hope was young.
We stumble through corridors of time with hearts unmended,
Each misstep a verse in a ballad of our own design;
The laughter of lost innocence now echoes unended,
A dirge for wisdom drowned in pride’s relentless brine.
From deep within the cauldron of wounded, wrathful souls,
A burning vendetta rises, fierce as a wild, untamed fire;
In its flicker, tenderness withers, and ancient bitterness tolls,
Transforming gentle hearts into instruments of cruel desire.
Thread by thread, our lives weave a tapestry of scorn and rue,
Wrought from the strands of cruelty, harsh as winter’s bitter gale;
Every choice, every shattered dream, reveals what we outgrew—
A legacy of blindness, where empathy faltered and failed.
Yet beneath this armor of arrogance and spite,
There lies a secret chamber—fragile, raw, and true;
A trembling pulse of sorrow, a spark of mournful light,
Where human complexity blooms in shades of every hue.
Gaze deep into the mirror, where our dark reflections merge,
Stupidity and vengeance entwined in an eternal, fated dance;
Each scar a testament to the ceaseless, self-destructive surge
That etches cruelty on our souls, denying us a second chance.
Still, amid the ruins of our shattered, heedless might,
A whisper rises softly—a promise wrapped in pain;
Perhaps in the quiet after sorrow’s endless night,
We may learn that through our wounds, compassion can reclaim.
So sing, O weary hearts, this melancholy, timeless song,
A lament for humanity—both flawed and fiercely free;
In our cruelty and our folly, we have wandered far too long,
Yet within our darkest errors, the spark of redemption may yet be.
lavish geyser
drifting zodiac
