A tornado of insights,
Wandering at midnight,
In the gardens of both gentle and vile,
With parallel ends that will never meet.
Sitting here in my own mind,
Consuming it as a whole,
Like a black hole.
Falling into the pits,
Of my own conscious,
In the search of a golden thread of destiny,
To secure its absolute certainty,
By ignoring the question of its reality.
It’s an endless cycle,
With the repetitive recital.
Where the time simply slips into the void,
To fill my soul with lies,
Pretending them to be real and wise.