In shadows deep, where whispers dwell,
A tale unfolds, yet not for me to tell.
In labyrinths of thought, where echoes play,
Words take flight, but drift away.

Not for the heart that aches alone,
Not for the soul that’s turned to stone.
In realms unseen, where dreams entwine,
I pen a story, yet it’s not mine.

The ink flows freely, a river of night,
Crafting visions in the pale moonlight.
But every line, a fleeting breath,
A chorus sung, yet not in death.

So let the pages turn and sigh,
As stars align in the velvet sky.
For in this dance of pen and fate,
I write for truth, but not too late.

Not for the eye that seeks to find,
But for the whispers of the mind.
In every verse, a mystery to see,
A tapestry woven, yet not for me.
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