Enigmatic whispers flow like
translucent ink
on parchment
burdened by the weight of silence,
the echo, distant, clearer,
wading through the restless sea
of unspooled thought.
What is the color
of a forgotten dream
tracing lines
across the slant of morning light?
The warmth of golden echoes
sprawled against cold stone walls,
where fictitious truths
masquerade.
Consumed by cyclical rhythms,
the voice of time
dances, weaving
patterns through
whispered breaths of bygone years.
Enter the Hall
Interior Echoes
Reflections in Glass