In the end, we all shall become a story

In the end, we all shall become a story, Woven into the relentless fabric of time, melancholic and deep, Like shadows dancing in the pale light of dusk. Through the delicate labyrinth of the mind, Our thoughts flow like quiet rivers beneath the nocturnal sky, Carrying with them the silent echoes of the past and unfulfilled desires. We are trees in the forest of memory, With deep roots planted in the soil of recollections, And our leaves are stories, rustling in the sorrowful wind of time. In the heavy breath of the night, We find ourselves wandering through the dark corridors of lost thoughts, Where every corner hides a whisper of love lost or found. Our thoughts are stars shining in the boundless sky within, Each flicker a verse from an endless poem, Whispered by our silent hearts in the respite of solitude. At the edge of the world of dreams, We are sailors on a sea of melancholy, Navigating by the constellations of cherished memories, Seeking the lighthouse of hope in the dense darkness of existence. In the depths of silence, We find our legends engraved in the rocks of time, Every crack a story, every shadow a trace of longing. As twilight descends upon our souls, We breathe life into the unseen pages of destiny, Writing with tears and laughter, with losses and reunions. In the end, we collapse into the mystic stillness of eternity, Stories lost in the endless sea of the universe, Where every thought mingles with the infinite, Leaving behind a trail of light in an eternal night. We are but stories, woven with the silver thread of melancholy, Each breath an echo, each slowing heartbeat a verse, In the endless ballad of life and time, Where the fear of ruin and death dissipates like a dream.