Beneath the velvet skin of midnight,
whispers spin tales of yesteryear,
errant ghosts nested in the fissures
of a mind untamed, unbound by the
sweet lace of time.
Does the silence sing, or does
it cradle the unsaid, hanging like
dew upon a thread, waiting?
Tell me, does the clock know your
name, your name whispered in secret
upon the moth’s wings?
Enter the Labyrinth | Hear the Murmurs | Gaze into the Question