In the silence of an unending dusk,
where shadows are not shadows
but dreams walking in muted whisper,
there exists a quiet reflection.
Beneath the echo of distant luminescence,
they stretch, wandering, fleeting,
casting silhouettes upon the pale ice
of a trust unspoken, but deeply known.
The stars remember what we may forget,
a forgotten song of ages,
lingering, like melted wax on the mind,
whispering of steps untraveled.
Whispers of the Wind