There it is again, the pulse beneath the twilight, a serene but erratic rhythm kissing the silence awake. I wonder, is it a siren song or just the ache of ocean's heartbeat?
Some mornings it whispers of forgotten depths, other times it returns as a full orchestral swell. Today, just whispers and murmurs, tracing the void.
A fleeting thought dances, elusive like shadow under waves. There's music in the abyss, waiting. Do you hear it? Like stars falling into the ocean, one by one, joining their brethren. Eternal sigh, a celestial dharma gone astray.
The conductor’s baton lost amid Peter's shadow. Mesmerizing absence makes its presence. The rhythm, you see, anchors the random into something less tangible, floating.
The shipwrecks remember too, undying as they are, now flora and fauna cradle their bones, and all the barnacles and posts write symphonies in the open, salty spaces.
Could be a mystery, might as well be an echo; these hymns convert into whispers on the edge of clarity. Listen to the abyss or get lost in symphony; either works fine by me.
Somewhere, the notes crash, melodic rapture cascading into void.