A syntax of shadows lays bare upon the quantum plane,
entangled lengths of whispered stories lost in time;
once spoken by the lips of those who never were.

The raven's call hangs heavy in the atmosphere,
its note a longing, a tether to undefined realms.
Listen, for the wind carries words,
wrapped in velvet darkness, swirling in whispers of old.

Beneath the cracked surface of a forgotten tome,
lies the truth, untouched, unspoken, yet profoundly near.
An echo of existence brews in the void
like silent screams of spectral hands tracing fate's cruel designs.

Mark these glyphs, beauty entwined with doom,
a dance of light amidst perpetual dusk.
The clock ticks not in the realm of shadows;
it shatters, reconstructs, in a breath, in a whisper.