The whispering ghost of tomorrow unfurls
through ancient jellyfish-dotted lakes,
where conch shells dream of silent howling.
An echo faintly remembers
rippling streams from pixelated screens,
the mirrored eyes of bygone mice plead for verses undone.
Galaxies appear as pastel reminders,
of caramelized moons and eggshell dancers twirling on invisible strings
—a rupture in the sequence unnoticed.
In a kingdom not entirely real
yet butterfly wings in velvet skies are born
from seashell whispers and metallic rain.
To wander is to shift,
between pages fraught with tulip shadows brimming,
nectar flowing towards yesterday's borrowed choreography.