The Frost of Eternity

On a crumbling edge of time, where galaxies bend like shattered arcs, frost inhabits the bones of eternity. The wind exhales voiceless breaths, and nothingness leans against the shoulder of light. I am a lost point in the fissure of the cosmos, a body searching for its shadow, a meaning shattering like an abandoned mirror, a dream melting before it awakens.

Here, time is nothing but a transparent garment worn by absence; it neither advances nor recedes but coils around itself like a river devouring its own source. Every moment is a suspended sigh, wavering between a beginning that never begins and an end that never ends. Emptiness here is not void—it is crowded with the echoes of questions that fall without answers, like slaughtered stars collapsing into the chest of the sky.

White crawls over everything, sealing the horizon like an unending shroud. Could coldness be a dormant memory or a mirror reshaping nothingness into the form of a poem? Beneath this frozen ceiling, questions grow without roots, and every thought that sprouts leaves behind a hole in the air.

Silence here is not stillness but a living entity that devours limbs, erases footprints, and swallows shadows without leaving a trace. The darkness asks me, "Who are you when words dissolve in the throat of the universe?" I answer, "I am the letter written from the remains of time, ice restoring the veins of eternity to its bloodstream." But words betray me, freezing on my lips like crystals incapable of taking shape.

I feel my limbs slipping away as if the cold is returning me to my primal substance. The frost here is an unyielding teacher—it does not kill, but it reshapes. I dissolve slowly, shedding my weight, like a star losing its place only to be reborn in an infinite expanse.

At the edge of time, when all bodies recede and plummet into the void, eternity remains—pure frost stretching without a sound. The light is not far, yet it evades distance, neither approaching nor vanishing. Cold is not death; it is a leap beyond the dream, where the self becomes a single drop of light in an ocean of nothingness.

Thus, the universe scripts a new eternity. And I am the letter bled to be read, yet forever a poem suspended in the heart of the void.