Echoes of screams
Remains unheard.
In the abyssal chaos
We call it the mind.

Enwrapped by the void,
Flakes of thought,
Falls upon the ground,
Softly tears the drought.

None seen by the eye,
Unnreflected all the rays.
In the silent play
We call it the conscience.

When the two meet
Only then it appears.
A place, in time, trapped.
Time confined, in that place.

Touch is derogatory,
Everything is fragile.
In the exhibition
We call it the memory.

Narrow is the passage
Opens up to the museum.
Without someone to manage
Inside is pure freedom.

Sour meets the tongue
Taste is unpleasing.
In the feast lounge
We call it the feeling.

Cook is a silhouette
Fading away.
Only to annhilate,
Of the salvation way.

Smell is rotten,
Cold as ice.
In the field, forgotten,
We call it the life.

Hangs a complex knot
Like a chandelier.
Is the path to out
And disappear.