Beneath the oceans of ink, where the blueprints of lost cities slumber,
parallel lines sketch shadows, remnants of paths once chosen,
yet never walked.
At dawn, when the first light cracks the horizon,
the spectres emerge, flowing through the walls like rivulets of mist,
unfurling palimpsests of histories erased by time's tender hand.
What was it you sought, with eyes wide shut and heart made of glass?
The blueprint lies incomplete, each silence a testament to dreams unfulfilled,
each pause, a world left unnamed.
Linked in shadows, these spectres waltz through invisible corridors,
their laughter a soft sigh beneath the weight of starched skies,
and all the while, the universe watches, a patient architect.