In the veiled nautilus of night, wandering tread. The clock strikes once upon the sagging dawn,
which qeen of moss does crown the evening eye? Beneath aged bridges where forgotten fodders venture,
a call doest echo for those reverent to hollow mysteries.
Upon cobblestone roads wandering memories,
An artefact of lost tales lies, socketed in mist.
Is it the tremor of winds that whistle mournfully,
Or the specter of her melancholy waltz in Celtic times?
Twixt suns of quieturemisk and void, flicker’s isle,
a whisper embodies the ancients,
thus retrieving disconsolate heartstreams.
Take heed, seeker:
Unclaimed Whisper,
The Breath of Edgelands,
and Phantom Revelation await thy wandering soul.