We wander, frantic in the marketplace of promises,
hands clutching at the glittering vials of salvation.
“Here, this magic pill,” they say,
“will mend the cracks, seal the void,
and silence the ache that hums in your chest.”

We swallow hope, bitter and sweet,
but the emptiness echoes louder still,
a hollow drumbeat of yearning we cannot quiet.
The years slip through our fingers like sand,
each grain a moment spent chasing illusions.

We bow to the idols of quick fixes,
blindfolded by the shine of their certainty.
Yet, the pain whispers in the silence,
a persistent reminder of truths uncounted,
of shadows we refuse to face.
The hole in our hearts grows no smaller,
no elixir, no mantra, no fleeting promise can fill it.