The clock struck twelve and went in opposite direction.

Unwinding mysteries, unearthing what was lost for good.

Untangling the truth from infinite exhausted iterations of

white lies. And colored being though as such by just the eyes

of the beholder. Whatever’s going to be left residing at the

very bottom, unshattered, triumphantly resting as it would -

Among all Humankind Achievements, Failure, Pain, and Joy,

Amidst the Power, Greed, and Fading Souls, held up together

By a fine, most delicate of all existing matters - perceived as finite -

Yet in essence - standing still:

Illusion of the Time.

It will write History anew from scratch.

The type of story that would match the destination format.

Somebody’s eyes might glance once over your meticulously written,

edited, recorded, polished, and cared for words and deeds.

With single question, coming out as if it truly matters -

Why?

The symphony of their empathetic sighs

Will make you shiver long deep in the ground,

Or maybe somewhere far in outer space.

There as you gaze upon the tired Earth,

Through layers of millennial pollution,

Your message will get jumbled -

there’s no doubt.

Revealing secrets of your living,

Shouting at your very loudest as you may!

Just to relay what’s been inside

Since you existed and since

You’ve been gone:

The truth is that..

You haven’t found the answer.

The truth is that -

There’s none.