In the quiet depths of shadowed thought, where light seems but a dream,
A soul wanders lost, in twilight's grip, a silent, muffled scream.
The world outside moves on, untouched, by the weight that drags below,
A heavy chain of leaden woes, that only the heart can know.
The sun may rise, the birds may sing, a symphony of life,
But to the ears that hear through fog, it's a distant, muffled strife.
The colors blend to muted grays, the flavors lose their taste,
And every step feels like a march, through an endless, barren waste.
The laughter of the past echoes, a ghostly, haunting sound,
A reminder of what once was felt, before the dark was found.
The future looms, a daunting cliff, too steep for hope to climb,
And the present is a river cold, flowing out of time.
In the mirror, a stranger stares, with eyes that once held stars,
Now they hold the universe's void, the silence of its scars.
The world spins on its axis still, but the axis of the mind,
Is a broken wheel, that turns and creaks, with the peace it cannot find.
Yet, in this ocean of despair, where the depths are cold and steep,
A flicker of a flame may stir, from the slumber of its sleep.
For even in the darkest night, the stars above still gleam,
A distant lighthouse, a beacon's call, a whisper of a dream.
So let the poem be a raft, upon the sea of dread,
A crafted vessel, word by wood, by hopeful verses led.
May it sail towards the horizon, where the dark and light do blend,
And carry the heart to morning's shore, where the night may finally end.
