We master the art of feeding our doubts, with the dark enchantment of a what if

We master the art of feeding our doubts, with the dark enchantment of a "what if...”, Beneath our feet grow roots that suffocate us in the fog of unanswered questions. We don’t perish in the maze of foretold fears, signed by the oracle of cold nights, But in the dulled and empty echo of a heart that hasn’t heard its call, its own symphony. We speak of deaths in manuals written by fears, like soothsayers in leaves of distant tea, And we suffer under the weight of ailments that have no name, no face, no hue. It’s not the body that breaks under the sickly burden, but the spirit searching for its mate, forgotten, Floating in the vast abyss of a present we have not embraced, not felt its warm kiss of the sun. It’s not the infinite that is our bane, but the current silence that steals life from between our fingers, Without a sweet tenderness, without the emotion of an embrace that revives all that is inert. For danger comes not from the noise of clocks ticking imminently, But from silent monsters, crumbled in furies and fears, gnawing at our discreet hearts. We are not warriors in the fight with the world, but in the one within the walls of our soul, Where thoughts break and dreams fade in the heart’s Morse code hush. The guarantor of life is not as we believed, not when we painted our fantasies in black, But in slender moments, scattered, in breaths forgotten on the altar of an unexplored, un-lived, abrupt "now.” So no, we do not die from the scripts we’ve directed in our whitewashed fear, We die from the never-ending journey, trickling through the sand of unnoticed, anonymous seconds. We fear all that could be - a monstrous colossus, hidden in tomorrow's fog, Yet in the end, behold, life passes us by, a falling star that never touches the whispered, sublime wishes.