Thought spills, liquid mercury,
slipping between the cracks of time,
curling into loops that whisper—
was this now, or was this then?
Shapes fold in on themselves,
petals of a flower that never was,
breathing colors,
melting syllables,
dissolving into the hum behind silence.
The past flickers—half-remembered, half-imagined,
a déjà vu stitched from star remnants,
woven in the space between eyelids.
You reach for it,
but your fingers pass through,
leaving ripples in the air where meaning should be.
Time does not walk, it spirals—
every step echoes forward, backward, inward,
a corridor of mirrors that never quite reflect the same face twice.
Memories bloom where the future should be,
and the present?
A trick of the light.
Somewhere, the self unravels,
threads pulled into the great humming void,
where thought becomes sound,
sound becomes color,
color becomes—
Nothing.
Everything.