Whispering Spirits

In the silence of the corners, where shadows gather stories of yesterday's forgotten dreams,
I hear the voices that never spoke, tracing lines through the ink that wasn't even spilled.
Echoes of untold tales, weaving through the fabric of a mindset slightly askew,
Like a clock that doesn't tick but hums in tune with an unseen melody.

Do you see them too? The spirits of the words unsaid, resting beneath the surface of
your consciousness, waiting for a chance to uncurl like moths from paper coffins,
Seeking the light of day or evening dusk, whichever comes first.

They whisper, oh how they whisper, in colors unseen, in rhythms unheard,
Fading in and out of the spectrum that isn't there unless you know how to look.
A silent sphere spins idly, holding secrets in its void, an enigma wrapped in
the frail tapestry of what could have been, should have been, if only one
dared to let it flow, let it go, let it be.