In the twilight of forgotten dreams

In the twilight of forgotten dreams, Where shadows intertwine with whispers of the past, I traverse the ruins of gods, Their thrones turned to dust, their voices mere echoes. I speak of divinities, though my heart is an empty vessel, A canvas of belief, unpainted, untouched, Yet, in this void, I am an artist, A weaver of tales, a sculptor of illusions. Do not believe a word I say, for in my art, Lies the paradox of intertwined truth and falsehood, Each sentence a labyrinth, each metaphor a veil. I hold no faith, yet I evoke realms of belief, I sing hymns of the divine, Yet my melody is that of a skeptic, An ode to the void, a psalm of silence. The truth I speak is but a mirage, A reflection in the waters of doubt, For to understand is to lie, To express is to deceive. In the realm of the psyche, my words are symbols, Shadowy figures dancing on the walls of the mind, In the realm of beauty, they are metaphors, Elegant masks of the unfathomable truth. So walk with me through these ruins, Feel the melancholy of forgotten gods, And in the silence between my words, Listen for the truth that lies beneath the lie. For in this dance of shadows and light, In the ever-flowing stream of consciousness, We find the essence of our being, A fleeting glimpse of eternity, hidden in the ephemeral. Do not believe in my words, but in the silence I weave, For in that silence lies the true magic, The melancholy of existence, the poetry of life.