The dawn spills like timid milk, rippleless across blurred consciousness.
In the increments of moments, unfinished echoes vanish silently,
draping the gossamer veil of forgotten lullabies on quiet summers.
Where do words find their final breath,
when parchment cradles phantoms of dreams?
Penumbra wanes in solitude, holding behest
unto the sepia of yesteryears' whispers.
Rewind the halos
cast over the forbidden noontide.
You lean inward into liquid recesses,
tracing the lineaments of dew-drenched echoes,
swallowed by light, in spectral chiaroscuro dances.
Enter the morning haze
and let the fables filter in their quiet command.