When shadows whisper on the ribbed temples of dreams,
I trace the contours of invisible wings
that nowhere anchor but whisper secretly
in pavements old as dust, anew as dawn.
Here stands a tower not of stone,
but of echoes in corridors where
the air forgets its breath and folds
amidst the mists of silence.
Am I the architect, the dream, the drift?
Or merely a specter of thoughts adrift
upon the horizon where sunnever sets?
I build in broken whispers,
I dismantle in sighs.