In the quiet spaces between words, echoes form
like ripples across a forgotten pond's surface.
We reach for silence that resounds; it drowns,
gently enveloping our lost thoughts suspended
in the amber glow of a sun long submerged.
Each echo a memory, a phrase left unresolved,
attempting to trace those octaves lost in
the depths of echo2, where twilight breathes,
casting shadows on hazy perceptions of light
filtering through murky waters far away.
Am I but an echo, reverberating through
corridors untouched by time? Or perhaps,
I am the silence seeking voice among
voices, drifting like mist over ancient seas.
The answers dry on paper, waiting ink.