WHISPERS OF THE UNSEEN

 

Whispers of the Unseen

The city hums with secrets, a marketplace of souls,

Where whispers weave through shadows, and mystery takes its toll.

I am a feather in the tempest, weightless, untethered, free,

Don’t pin your hopes upon me—I drift where winds decree.

I am not what you imagine, not the mold you’ve cast,

I am the echo in the silence, the future and the past.

You offer gilded promises, illusions in the mist,

But I won’t chase your phantoms—my hands are clenched in fist.

For I am bound to greater things, to paint the skies with dreams,

Not to grasp at fleeting shadows or unravel at the seams.

Life is a trickster cloaked in dusk, a figure sly and shrewd,

Luring the lost with fleeting charms, in alleys dark and crude.

But I am not the one you fool—I see through every guise.

When the night falls heavy, and doubt begins to creep,

It’s not the devil’s whisper, but the self you’ve buried deep.

Don’t claim you had no power, no voice to call your own,

For in the mirror’s gaze, your truth is etched in stone.

If your song is but a hollow tune, your reflection will confess,

The weight of all your choices, the lies you can’t suppress.

I’ve longed to join the revelry, where gilded masks parade,

Where beauty hides the hollow hearts, and truth begins to fade.

But I am not a painted doll, nor a pawn in their charade,

I’d rather stand in solitude than join their masquerade.

For fame is but a fleeting breeze, a crown of brittle glass,

And those who chase its hollow light are bound to crash at last.

I won’t be bought with silver, nor swayed by fleeting gold,

My soul is not for auction, my story won’t be sold.

I may not shift the world’s great tides, nor bend its iron will,

But I’ll be the coin you never claimed, the silence on the hill.

For in the end, it’s not the wealth, nor the applause you crave,