In the nocturnal theater of wanderings,
where shadows don costumes of past masquerades,
there lies a book unopened, its pages dusted
with the irony of time unspent—fast asleep.
Once, upon a midnight dreary,
a quill danced to a symphony unheard—of.
Scribbles sparked into circles with pointed gazes,
mapping stars of improbable want—an atlas of never.
Cast away in a dream-caught harbor,
the admiral of ambivalence charts
constellations of dishes unwashed and
coffee mugs longing for absent chatter—anchorless.