Beneath the void of forgotten stars
lay the tomes bound in twilight skins,
each page echoing a world lost to itself.
A scream stifled in the sanctum of night,
yet reverberating in the marrow of dreams.
Once, they dreamed beneath the waking skies,
the pages tinged with the breath of dawn.
Their ink was the essence of silent fears,
woven in whispers of cosmic despair,
forgotten in the labyrinth of time.
In the hollow echo of untold stories,
lies the resonance of unshed tears.
The cries of stars, mapped out in lines,
linger in the abyss where silence cries.
This is the void, and every page is alight.