Blurred Twilight
In corridors draped in fading sepia,
shadows amble like spectres of forgotten
dreams, their whispers barely pierce the veil
— yet you listen, wrapped in a shroud of silence.
The clock ticks backwards now,
its hands unwinding stories long rendered too absurd to recall.
Behind each door the echo of a life unlived
radiates an afterglow,
an echo fading before it begins.
Did we dance where stars once sparkled?
Among ruins of thought, we engraved languages
of light and shadow — now mere inscriptions on crumbling stone.
Where do the edges blur into tones of silence?
Is it here, amidst the murmurs of tree branches,
or further along, where twilight meets a forgotten future?