You ever thought how the ceiling swears on starlit nights? When the lights dim for dreams to plunder, I can feel the whispers aching to drift away, into constellations marking territories so old even I’ve forgotten the blueprint. Each timber above eyes your secrets, never judging, only remembering the echoes of your lonely heartbeats.
Once, the window pretended to forget the night you screamed. Through frosted eyes, it hoped you'd see past your rage into the lull horizons provide. Secrets, like framed moons, are the only witnesses to your truth. Frames whisper in the language of galaxies, mostly unreadable, sometimes frightful.
The clock? An endless loop of minutes chasing the pulse of distant suns. Tick tocks that passionately deny passage, clinging to shadowed walls in dances of madness assembled in numeric silence. Time is merely an illusion crafted of celestial repercussions.
Trace a Thought Unveil Lucid