Beneath the surface, a lone vessel drifts,
murmurs of silver fish illuminate the void,
weaving tales spun from forgotten dreams.
We peer into the depths, phantom whispers left for listening ears.
A lighthouse flickers, not perhaps a burn
but a signal—frequency disrupting the quietus.
Once whole indeed, aimless tendrils of mist inflate abstraction.
"Do we sail against the tide?" they asked.
In the ether, we became shadows of ourselves—
reflections upon reflections, lost even to remembrance.