Words slip, swirling through
the dusky haze
echoes forgotten
lost behind the veil of
REM
.
Have I always existed in this
twilight realm
where fading whispers
dance across my subconscious,
threading dreams with long-forgotten tales
like forgotten horizons brushing the sky's edge?
On the precipice, I stand,
breathing in the dusk,
inhaling remnants of stories lived
half-remembered, like embers dimming before the night's shadow falls
.
What do they call me below the stars?
Do I bleed in metaphors, weep in sighs,
snatch fragments of fleeting moments
and sew them
into a coat of forgotten wonders?
All answers lost
in the cradle of slumbering dusk,
somewhere along the paths woven by twilight whispers
.
Can one ever awaken
and not wish to dream again?