Unshed tears, unspoken words—life flows by quietly, relentlessly. Silence rests in graves, trembles in souls, an unseen weight that presses upon us. The power of necromancy and the nebulous realities of existence are subject to the kingdom of silence. Seasons come and go, but the land remains silent, waiting for the touch of a drizzle, like a desert yearning for relief. The moon, once merry, is eclipsed, leaving behind only the silent, dark canvas of the night.
Silence—this omnipresent witness to our existences—lingers in the background of every life. Auroras, penumbras, and nebulas swirl in the silence, enigmas of life that leave us wondering. The barren lands lie waiting, hoping for an estuary to join them, bringing meaning to their emptiness.
The autumn leaves fall like a silent prayer, longing for the rapture of spring’s renewal. But silence dies, and silence is reborn, an eternal cycle that never ends.
I walk this unpaved path of shattered dreams, my soul caught in the path of hurricanes—hurricanes of dying silence. Withered leaves fall around me, like my hopes, leaving nothing but the residue of what once was. A tempest approaches, or maybe it’s just the morning sky, and yet all I hear is silence—always, endlessly, witnessing existence.