Is it here I walk, or somewhere etched in whispers?
The cobblestones remember paths not taken, shadows under statured skies.
Have we not been poised upon this cliff before?
The wind speaks a language only those enthralled by the moon understand.
Dreams weave jagged landscapes, our minds mapping cursive roads
Where echoes converse in curving passages of nebulous thought.
Footprints linger, forgotten truths trailing behind them.
Recall, yet forget:
The kettle hums a lullaby from a thousand yesterdays.
Regressed into the folds of silk spun by night, a song repetitively sweet.
Wake to shadows borrowed from the sun,
Lives lived into the abyss of peripheries unglued, peeling paint from
Ephemeral Sand Castles. Beyond the tangible, lies the dreamscape's residue.