Whispers of the Soul

Psychotic Disorder

The Vanishing Line

In the quiet hours when shadows creep,
Reality whispers, but delusion runs deep.
A line once defined by the sharpness of day,
Now blurs into twilight, where colors decay.

I walk on this precipice, teetering slow,
Between what is true and the chaos I know.
Voices like echoes, soft murmurs in air,
Tug at my reason, unraveling care.

Faces that flicker, familiar yet strange,
Melt into specters, a haunting exchange.
The room feels unsteady, the walls start to bend,
Where does the journey begin, where does it end?

Thoughts intertwine like threads in a loom,
Weaving a tapestry thick with the gloom.
A heartbeat, a shiver, a glimpse of the real,
But is it a vision, or something I feel?

The mirror reflects not the truth of my guise,
But a fracture of self, a web of disguise.
I reach for the boundary, but it slips through my hands,
A phantom existence in shifting sands.

What was once concrete, a steadfast embrace,
Now dances like shadows, devoid of a face.
Reality falters, a whispering chime,
As the vanishing line bends with the passage of time.

The fear of the dark, the dread of the bright,
Collide in the silence, obscuring my sight.
Yet somewhere within, a flicker remains,
A spark of connection that courses through veins.

So I wander this twilight, embracing the fray,
For in every delusion, there's truth in the play.
Though the line may dissolve, and the worlds intertwine,
I'll seek out the light where the shadows align.

In the depths of confusion, I'll learn to reclaim,
The threads of my spirit, the heart of my name.
For even in chaos, a whisper can shine,
Illuminating the path through the vanishing line.