Morning light spills gently upon the remnants of yesterday's dreams,
each moment a petal cast adrift upon life's endless creek.
The writer sits by the whispering pines, recalling stories never told.
Voices not their own echo softly in the stillness—lives lived
in shades too profound for mere words.
What do we erase in the margins,
that never appear in the plots or the prose?
Perhaps the sighing stars know more than mortals.
As night enfolds all with its silken shroud,
the writer dreams not of words, but of silent glances
exchanged between strangers who might be friends
in another life, another tale.