The mind is a fickle thing,
A fortress built on shifting sands,
Where wisps of whims lightly cling,
And strength lay in fragile hands.
It maps the stars with ease and grace,
Yet stumbles in the dark unknown,
A labyrinthine, a sacred place,
Where gods and devils carve their throne.
With fire, it forges dreams so vast,
Unyielding in its grand design,
Yet crumbles at the shadows cast,
By doubts that in its corridors twine.
It’s bold, like warriors in the night,
With insight sharp as ancient blades,
Yet flees from truths that pierce its sight,
And hides in self-made masquerades.
A paradox of force and fear,
Building empires, to let them fall,
A boundless sky, yet caged and near,
A titan held by chains so small.
In brilliance, it can touch the stars,
Shining through the darkest veils,
But often heals itself with scars,
Lost in its own fragmented tales.
The mind is both strong and weak,
A riddle wrapped in cosmic thread,
With wisdom deep as oceans speak,
Yet tethered by a single thread.
In you, divinity boasts its brilliance,
Yet folly finds its place to dwell,
A canvas for both fate and chance,
A heaven's peek, a private hell.
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