The letters that never leave their ink
Waiting on tables adorned with dust,
Speak whispers only in shadow and sync
Their silence, a symphony, both firm and just.
Footfalls across cobbled marbled
paths painted in dusk and skyline hues,
a ghost returns to claim their unread
prologue, sealed with the breath of muse.
Scribe of the night, where does your quill
find its water? Is it the tears of stars
unspooled across their midnight shore
or the dreams too vast beneath our jars?
The symphonies composed in silence
crack the crust of temporal illusion,
unraveling, intertwined in violence,
echo their errant dissolution.
Dare thee glimpse into the margin's edge?
There lies an unmarked rendezvous
with syllables sewn in fabric of pledge,
both high and hollow between the two.