The table was set for a meal that never came.
They gathered in a circle drawn in ash,
hands clasped in epochs forgotten.
Shadows lingered longer than memories,
whispering to the wind their ancient tales.
Between the lines of spoken words,
the diagram etched in a therapist's mind,
unearthing the layers that separated soil from sky—
a divide not of land but of dreams unfurling.
Do you remember the orange clocktower?
Its chime reverberated through
years little understood,
shifting sands of understanding,
where logic met soft, worn wisdom.
Listen to the silence where echoes sleep.
Grains of past sand timelined in rows,
fossilized echoes waiting for an assignation of breath.
Crystals whisper their encoded truths,
languages foreign to even the oldest diviners.
The horizon fractals,
where the light bends crimson in divorce.
Fluid, liquid memory spills forth,
transcending adamantine explanations.
Reach across paths diverged, silently pining.
Can an eye ever close upon the desire
to index the dimensions of one’s soul?
Each scope risks distorting,
amplifying bonds etched in porous time.
Were shadows cast ever in need of a purpose?
Peer into moments like beads on twisted threads,
ornate but without realm
Old words, whispers, echoes
scatter the veil astray—
Divide is simple, yet sewn complex,
stitched into the fabric of this now.