Lies a verse, unwritten, cradling the tenderness of phantom's touch,
Wrapped in the gauze of a waking dream, echoes dance along the spine.
Silk-thread songs cling to walls, corridors carpeted with treble and silence.
In the shadows, a pencil scribbles thoughts in languages once spoken in twilight.
Diet of night, a feast for weary minds, banquets laid beneath the graffiti moons.
Quotes from forgotten pages whisper into the ether, breezes clothed in metaphor.
I speak to you through spectres, the unclaimed destinies of ink-washed illegibility.