The Whispering Abyss
In the ebon playground of potential, where shadows leap
in laughter and dust dances upon the cradle of stars.
What sings beneath the hollow echoes, but dreams in slumber
twisted, yet pure, like a child’s gaze upon the unfurled darkness?
The void calls, it hums a melody sweet and foreboding.
Listen — for it knows, the lullaby of the never, the always-not-here.
A canvas broad and quiet, painted in stark innocence
of moments that are not, but want to be.