Beneath the carnival of rusted dreams,
Where faded hopes dissolve in midnight’s gleam,
No soul dares to speak the spectral hymns,
Of the cold ghost-lights and their ancient whims.
Hush now, hush, the whispers come to dance,
Riding on the breeze, they wove the trance,
“They speak not of what was, only what can be,
In this play of shadow puppets, on life’s marquee.”
Electric pulses, through the veins of the city,
Beat the rhythm, echo the gritty,
Not mournful blues of days yesteryear,
But the fevered pitch of a future, unclear.
An opera of chaos, the stage is set,
In the theater of tomorrow, the sun will forget,
Reflecting in the puddles of neon despair,
The frenzied painting of a world laid bare.
Madness, oh the madness, laughs the jester, in glee,
In the face of truth, it dances, carefree.
Shadows waltz in the echo chamber of time,
A manic ballad, a discordant rhyme.
In the crucible of night, the stars, they burn,
Seething with the secrets, they yearn,
To tell the tales of what can be,
A future wrought in the foundry of uncertainty.
Sharp, oh the sharpness, of destiny’s blade,
Carving the tomorrow, in darkness laid,
A prophetic chisel on the stone of now,
Sculpting the echoes of the future’s vow.
Turn then, the corner, into the alley unlit,
Where reality’s fabric begins to split,
Mirror there, holds not your face,
But the future’s phantom, in its hollow embrace.
Twist now, oh the twist, in the tale’s final act,
That the mirror’s image, the future fact,
Is not some phantom, not some absurd lore,
But the cold hard truth, of what was before.
The punchline of the universe, then, it seems to be,
No one tells you what was, only what can be,
The madness, the fervor, the echoing scream,
Is nothing but the past, in future’s dream.