I wake to silence where the larks once sang,
To morning’s ache—a slow, unyielding pang.
The world, once wild with promise, shrinks with fears;
Empty houses echo, haunted by the weight of years.

We build our shelters driven by desire, not need,
Hoarding as wealth the trophies of our greed.
We trade our time for trinkets doomed to rust,
And sow our hours in fields soon turned to dust.

Most drift through life, resigned and confined,
Their quiet dread a current, dark and blind.
We yearn for meaning, always out of frame—
A carnival of shadows—each day wears a new name.

We live as neighbors, yet our worlds rarely meet,
Each scrolling through silence, programmed to repeat.
We chase every impulse, the next fleeting trend,
And find our longing circles without end.

Simplicity remains a riddle, elusive even to the wise,
A mirage on the horizon that forever defies.
We soothe our wounds with comforts we devise,
And toast to the lies that keep truth disguised.

Let not neon voices nor clamoring market’s siren song,
Lure you toward that glittering, faceless throng.
For to live is not to chase idols made of smoke—
But to peel back the mask and laugh at the universe’s joke.

Each dawn, a chance to start, yet most will find
The morning’s light weighs heavy on the mind.
The miracle of living seems a jest—
A brief distraction before our eternal rest.

True wealth resides in what we choose to lose:
The frantic pace, the glitter we refuse.
A man grows rich in needless things he can release,
Yet the world’s restless calling denies him peace.

So may I walk, with weary, measured pace,
Beneath pale stars that whisper of my place,
Content to know, as seasons come and pass,
That life is but a fingerprint fading from the glass.

For life’s brief trial is but a humble request—
To feel, to strive, to ache, and then to rest.
Yet as dusk falls gently on the boundless blue,
I search the fading distance for a world few ever knew.