We are fleeting apparitions, stepping between the threads of reality and the shadow
We are fleeting apparitions, stepping between the threads of reality and the shadow,
Children of a twilight that never ceases, neither white nor black, but both.
Phantoms with hearts haunted by a song both dead and alive,
We are the echoes of a world that only awakens within us, oscillating ceaselessly between to be or not to be.
We, inconstant spirits, struggle in this distorted illumination,
Neither fullness nor void, but a play set upon two stages.
We parade the pestilence of doubt, sowing it like a weed,
Suffocating both daylight and darkness with our spectral fantasies.
Within each of us, a war wages in the secret conversations of cells,
A blend of angels and demons, two halves of a being in contention,
A dream too vivid to be just an illusion, too faint to be seen in broad daylight,
A guilt with two faces, an indulgent spectacle of showcasing and hiding.
Born from a syncopation, haunted by a thousand voices from past and future,
Turmoil of a sea churning between shores that refuse to receive us.
Spewed from the mouths of the void, we imprint the stamp of madness everywhere,
Filling the voids and cracks of the world with our unseen, evanescent monstruosities.
Thus, we carry our toxic charm, a filthy dance both in sunlight and in shadow,
Crushing beauty under the weight of thoughts that haunt the dark corners of the cosmos.
In every branch of our existence slithers a venomous paradox,
We are our own specters – an entire world, contaminated by the fear of being truly ourselves.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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