In the hushed echoes of a world beyond,
the trunk lies—old, untouched, and wise.
Secrets of futures folded, forgotten,
whisper softly through the shadowed wood.

Emissaries of the past, they linger,
murmuring in voices of dormant stars and
winds that carried sounds of
landscapes that never grew grass.

"Time," she said, tracing the outline
of an hourglass with trembling fingers,
"is a cloak, woven and unwoven,
a tapestry draped over the shoulders of
those who dare to dream while awake."

The canvassed future, an artist's folly,
splattered with hues of what-ifs and maybes,
hangs on the walls of this trunk’s memory
like the bittersweet notes of a long-lost song.