In the frost-kissed night, where shadows birth their tales,
the moon, a watchful eye, gazes upon silent realms.
Did you sense the touch, like a distant echo's sigh,
tracing lines on unseen skin, a phantom's gentle plea?
Laminated dreams dwell in the half-light,
where specters of broken whispers linger,
only to dissolve into the hollow reach of dawn.
Yet here, in the twilight's cradle, they find home.
Dive deeper into the abyss and discover the unspoken tides,
or perhaps follow the silent steps through stories untold,
where each path diverges into an unseen narrative.
We are the whispers caught in the windswept eaves,
notes unfurling from a melody of missing limbs;
an ode to the spaces where absence dances,
and the heart learns to feel what it cannot hold.
Beneath the moon's silver touch, we cast our song,
woven with the fragments of solitude,
for every shadow knows the hymn of stars,
and every silence, a song yet to be sung.