The Ruins of Destiny

Deciphered, interpreted, but never quite translated—
these echoes of the past, fragments left faded.
Taken as feelings, shadows of memories lost,
tracing the outlines of time, whatever the cost.

But do they listen? Do they even hear?
The signs re-echo, yet they draw near
only to dismiss, to turn away,
preferring their truths, come what may.

They are what they are—the Christian, the saint,
the ones who declare what they think you ain't.
The normal ones, wrapped in certainty’s cloak,
unable to grasp the messages you spoke.

For the past whispers secrets, deepening signs,
but they’re deaf to the meanings beyond the lines.
They cling to their truths, their well-worn ways,
ignoring the ruins that lie in the maze.

What are these signs but echoes in the dark?
What is this destiny, this fading spark?
If no one will listen, if no one will care,
are we doomed to keep speaking to empty air?

These are the ruins of destiny's design—
deciphered and seen, but never aligned
with the hearts of those who refuse to bend,
who prefer the comfort of what they defend.

Memories crumble, meanings dissolve,
but the questions remain, unsolved.
Do they wish to hear? No, they refuse,
lost in their dogma, content to lose.

So, we stand amidst the ruins, the echoes untold,
trying to translate what the past enfolds.
Yet the world turns blind, indifferent to the plea—
for they are what they are, and we are left to be.