Whispered Promise Of Something New
Whispered Promise of Something New
In the depths of my sketchbook, a concept stirs. It began as a whispered promise, a hint of something new on the cusp of reality. My pencils danced with an otherworldly energy, leaving behind trails of graphite that shimmered like dark matter memory.
* Quicksand of Uncertainty
+ The more I drew, the more the lines blurred.
+ A balance between order and chaos.
+ Finding meaning in the murmur
My gaze drifts to a brochure on the desk, its pages fluttering like a bird's wings. The images within seem to shift, revealing hidden truths beneath the surface. A glen of verdant green stretches out before me, punctuated by the skeletal remains of a long-forgotten structure.
Dimensional Echo
I see it now: a labyrinthine corridor, its walls weaving in and out of existence like a Terracotta potter's wheel. The air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers, their petals unfolding like the pages of an ancient tome.
A figure stands before me – a guy with a gazebo-like hat perched atop his head. He speaks in riddles, his words dripping with an esoteric honey that intoxicates and confounds.
"...and so, we find ourselves at the threshold of something new..."
His eyes bore into mine, like two dark holes sucking in all meaning. I feel myself being drawn into their depths, where the whispered promise of something new awaits.
In this realm, time becomes a fluid concept, a balance between past and future. The present moment dissolves, leaving only the echoes of what has been and what may be.
Reassembling Meaning
As I scribble out these words, the world around me begins to blur. The lines between reality and fantasy dissolve, leaving behind a landscape of fragmented thought.
A balance between order and chaos reigns supreme, as the whispered promise of something new whispers its secrets in my ear.
Recursive Poem
In the depths of my sketchbook, I find myself lost
A labyrinthine corridor, its walls weaving in and out of existence like a Terracotta potter's wheel
The air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers...
Finding meaning in the murmur
Quicksand of Uncertainty...
(bolded for emphasis, but not quite complete)
**
In the depths of my sketchbook, a concept stirs. It began as a whispered promise, a hint of something new on the cusp of reality. My pencils danced with an otherworldly energy, leaving behind trails of graphite that shimmered like dark matter memory.
* Quicksand of Uncertainty
+ The more I drew, the more the lines blurred.
+ A balance between order and chaos.
+ Finding meaning in the murmur
My gaze drifts to a brochure on the desk, its pages fluttering like a bird's wings. The images within seem to shift, revealing hidden truths beneath the surface. A glen of verdant green stretches out before me, punctuated by the skeletal remains of a long-forgotten structure.
Dimensional Echo
I see it now: a labyrinthine corridor, its walls weaving in and out of existence like a Terracotta potter's wheel. The air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers, their petals unfolding like the pages of an ancient tome.
A figure stands before me – a guy with a gazebo-like hat perched atop his head. He speaks in riddles, his words dripping with an esoteric honey that intoxicates and confounds.
"...and so, we find ourselves at the threshold of something new..."
His eyes bore into mine, like two dark holes sucking in all meaning. I feel myself being drawn into their depths, where the whispered promise of something new awaits.
In this realm, time becomes a fluid concept, a balance between past and future. The present moment dissolves, leaving only the echoes of what has been and what may be.
Reassembling Meaning
As I scribble out these words, the world around me begins to blur. The lines between reality and fantasy dissolve, leaving behind a landscape of fragmented thought.
A balance between order and chaos reigns supreme, as the whispered promise of something new whispers its secrets in my ear.
Recursive Poem
In the depths of my sketchbook, I find myself lost
A labyrinthine corridor, its walls weaving in and out of existence like a Terracotta potter's wheel
The air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers...
Finding meaning in the murmur
Quicksand of Uncertainty...
(bolded for emphasis, but not quite complete)
**
Published July 11, 2025