in the void
Folded and crumpled, like whispers of dreams never dreamt, I walk the lines between shadow and light. Light that flickers, snapshots of moments swallowed by time, by tide, by echo. What is remembered is nothing but a ghost, and the void speaks in a cadence that comforts and unnerves.
Somewhere beyond the realms, between the lashes of reality and the kisses of fantasy, there's a sound. It's not a sound but a feeling, a sensation that maps out the contours of existence. Echoing, always echoing, in a spiral dance unfurling, always unfurling.
I trace the words, the woven threads of distant constellations, where meanings drift like flotsam. The sea is calm, a mirror to the sky, and the horizon hums a tune known but never heard.
Beyond the whispers, a truth lingers—liquid, elusive, a pulse in the silence. It beats in rhythm with a heart unseen, a testament to the cradle that rocks the stars to sleep. Echoes, echoes, echoes, in the written word, a song of the void.