In the gilded corridors of time, amidst the ephemeral dances of day into mourner's dusk, I found a fragment—the ticker of reality stalled, allowing the silk of memory to unravel. Seasons entwine such that autumn yields summer's sweet memory, a paradox both bewildering and wondrous.
The lavender sprigs of my grandmother's garden whisper tales, coaxed by winds that have traversed aeons. They declaim holy oranges under the sacrilegious sun, vibrant prayers to the gods who lost the reckoning of minutes as I tread upon that forgotten path.
Spring's Fragments linger like phantom limbs embracing shadows while the moonlight pirouettes upon honest waters, sighing halfway into another world. To witness this enamored struggle between realms is to wade through a tapestry woven slightly askew.
Sitting as the unwished companion to this cosmic hour, peculiar laughter erupts prematurely—it paints auroras in my recollections veiling the trite enforcement of temporal ecclesiasticism. My heart, interred into realms of incense and avian poise, beats softly and conspires with the time continuum's oscillating breath.
Follow auroran whispers back to the intersection of yesteryears, where the puedan songbird serenades revolution talk to aria hues impossibly subdued.
Invoke the spirits by walking purposefully into the growing null amidst nothing, and find that not all elegies are writes penning conduits toward oblivion—some resurrect old charades, comedy entwining its fellows into balancing whispers.