Ruins of Forgotten Whispers

The ruins of destiny lie before us,
deciphered, interpreted, but never truly translated—
whispers in a language long forgotten,
a tapestry woven with threads of time
yet torn by hands too blind to see.

Rather than words, they are taken as feelings,
fragments of memories from forgotten times,
re-echoing through the halls of our minds,
deepening the meanings of signs
we once understood but have now erased.

Do they wish to listen?
Can they even hear?
No—these echoes fall on deaf ears,
for they are what they are,
the Christian, the saint, the ordinary soul,
wrapped in the comfort of certainty,
never seeking beyond the confines of their role.

They do not care to unravel the riddles
hidden in the shadows of ancient stones,
where the past murmurs secrets
only the willing can hear.
But why listen when it’s easier to stay
in the cocoon of a faith unquestioned,
a world of clear answers where doubt has no sway?

The ruins crumble, the signs are ignored—
the remnants of wisdom we once adored
are left to gather dust in the silence of night,
while the faithful cling to their comforting light.

For they are what they are,
the righteous, the pure, the unbroken norm,
content to follow a path that’s been worn
by countless feet before them.
But the ruins of destiny lie waiting still,
for those with the courage to climb the hill,
to decipher, to question, to dare to see
the truths that lie in the shadows,
where the echoes of forgotten destinies
still sing.

So let them remain, these guardians of the known,
while the rest of us wander through the ruins alone.
For the past holds more than memories—
it holds the answers to who we might be.
But only if we listen, only if we care
to decipher the signs that lead us there,
beyond the comfort of what we’ve been told
into the mysteries yet to unfold.