In dreams, the ink-drenched ceiling
spills stories of forgotten shores,
where the echoes of laughter
dance with shadows of marionettes.
Do you remember the clock that sang?
Its hands were rivers, cutting through
the landscape of your childhood room
where the sunset never ceased
its gentle descent.
She spoke in whispers
woven through the tapestry
of your slumber, a silent
orchestra playing on strings
made of spider silk.
A garden of letters
unfurled under moonlit watch,
each petal a fragment
of a story not yet told,
yet somehow seemed known.