When night descends, the ink of darkness drips over memories

When night descends, the ink of darkness drips over memories, masks unravel like silk under the touch of the silent wind, the role I wear in the daylight becomes a shadow that dances, in the dark, my script unravels like a dream slipping through fingers. I pretend to be an unyielding rock, shouting this in the face of blinding light, but in the profound silence, my soul bends like paper carried by the wind, lost in the dark labyrinths of night, where echoes whisper, unspoken words floating like leaves carried by subterranean rivers. I boast, claiming that nothing matters anymore, only the shadows dance, but on the high walls of time, the old clock ticks with grave echoes, each tick-tock hurls my past like stones heated by the sun, striking my face with memories that burn like shooting stars on the sky of my soul. The face that once ruled the mirrors now fades into icy reflections, empty eyes gaze into abysses where thoughts intertwine like wild vines, the sun allowed me to hide behind veils of vain pride, but darkness strips away illusions, leaving only the truth to shine. In the eternal night, my soul floats like a ship without a compass, seeking a lost truth among the stars that tremble on the infinite sky, where memories melt like wax under the pale and cold moonlight, and yet, in this abyss, a spark is reborn, piercing through the darkness.