I feel it again, a whisper just out of reach,
like autumn leaves rustling past your windowpane
in the cold breath of dusk. They speak
truths not anchored, slipping like sand
between fingers that grasp at shadows.

Have you heard? The voice that never belonged
to anyone you know, yet feels so intimately yours?
It asks questions without answers,
filling the silence with its melancholic tune.

Maybe... just maybe, it's a fragment
of a dream long buried under the weight
of waking hours and the mundane.
Or perhaps it's a recurring echo
of voices past, reverberating through
the veils of time, calling you home.

Where is home, if not in the recesses
of your own mind, wrapped in the
warm blanket of forgotten lullabies?