In the stillness of infinity,  
a whisper lingers,  
unheard by time.  
The stars, brittle as old bones,  
fall apart in silence,  
their light a scattered memory.  
Eternal is a word with no edge,  
a circle that never closes.
Here, in the void between seconds,  
the sun forgets how to rise,  
its warmth a fiction,  
its glow a distant ghost.  
Night is not the absence of day,  
but the fullness of endless dark,  
a heavy cloak that does not lift.
In this space, there is no grief  
that ends in tears,  
no joy that bursts into laughter.  
Only the slow unravelling,  
the quiet decay of hope  
like flowers pressed too long  
in a forgotten book.
The moon is tired,  
its face a map of forgotten dreams,  
it's light a pale imitation  
of what it once was.  
There is no pull, no tide,  
no rhythm to this endless stretch  
of nothingness.
The soul drifts,  
a leaf caught in a wind  
that never ends.  
There is no home,  
no place to rest,  
only the echo of what was  
and the shadow of what will never be.
In the heart of forever,  
sorrow is not a burst,  
but a slow seep,  
a stain that spreads  
across the fabric of existence.  
It is the silence  
that follows a scream,  
the stillness that swallows a storm.
Eternal is a weight,  
a stone in the chest,  
a breath that never exhales.  
It is the unblinking eye,  
the watchful night,  
the endless horizon  
that offers no dawn.
Here, love is a memory  
that fades,  
a face that blurs,  
a name that loses meaning.  
Hate, too, dissolves,  
a fire that burns itself out,  
leaving only ashes.
In the end,  
there is only the quiet,  
the unspoken,  
the unresolved.  
A sorrow that does not scream,  
does not cry,  
but sits heavy,  
a stone at the bottom of the sea.  
Eternal. Unyielding.  
Forever.

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