In the quiet corners of the mind,
Where shadows dance with fleeting grace,
Whispers weave their silken strands,
Crafting truths that softly erase.
A puppeteer with unseen strings,
Gently guides the heart’s sweet song,
Twisting notes with deft precision,
Until right seems wholly wrong.
Mirrors reflect a fractured view,
Where light bends to hidden will,
And eyes, beguiled by soft illusions,
Fall captive to the gentle skill.
Yet in the heart’s deep, quiet core,
Lies a truth untouched by hands,
Waiting for the light of dawn,
To break free from binding strands.