The universe exhales gently
punctuated by the heartbeat of stars,
snuffed too soon, or perhaps
merely resting, while children
murmur the secrets of sleepy towns.
Lines of poetry cross in a dim alley,
where shadows negotiate silent truths,
while the cold wind nips at bones,
soft like the strumming of lonely guitars
in forgotten corners of our minds.
Children dream, waking not of galaxies,
but of spinning tops and drifting pimples;
foam speechless beneath electric skies,
as our fragile laughter slips through sieves
of soft, worn fabric.
Unravel threads by visiting: Silence Dancing
Coalesce thoughts with: Voiceless Whispers
Discover patterns in: Listen to the Distant Tune