Coves of Illusions

In the marketplace of murmurs, the unsung songs do pirouettes,
hawking whispers like vintage wines, aged with irony and regret.

Behold the serenade of sighs, a symphony of silence.
Rhapsodies of the forgotten, echo in the caverns of the now.

"Oh, how the harmonies drip like climatic paint upon the uncanvas!"

Vendors of the void, selling illusions of the real,
in the art gallery of the mundane, brush strokes reveal.

Heard melodies that haven’t been born yet,
a cacophony of unsung, in the key of F for futile.

"Dissonance is the new symphony," she claimed, as irony serenaded the night.