In the dim recess of the oceanic night,
tentacles write sonnets in brine-soaked silence.
Luminescent thoughts spiral,
weaving invisible tapestries across voids
where sound retreats into whispering shadows.
Listen, the octopus calls,
its voice a ripple on the fabric of dreams,
where doorways curve in forgotten spirals,
meshing the seen with unseen futures,
all lying unspoken in the ink of time.