A string vibrates
within the hollow confines of yesterday's sky, where the sound flutters briefly in search of solace.
On the edge of the empty stage, I hear the whispers of a forgotten tune, soft and alluring, echoing in a language only softened hands can interpret.
Phantom fingers
paint the walls in colors unnamed and unheard, holding an invisible melody within a rhythm uncharted.
Morning passes, an unseen orchestra tuning to silence before a concert of nothing emerges.
I meet the breeze with spirals of lavender frost, a dance of crystalline echoes in harmonic juxtaposition with the sturdy pillars of dreams.
Will they remember me, those penguins marching in the distance, or is memory merely a dance without partners?
And yet, still, the air hums...