In the ether of forsaken afternoons, whispers of
a carousel turn with the idle wind, its laughter
echoing through spectral valleys
hours lost in the maze of unvisited
gardens where shadows dance without
corporeal forms, tracing dreams of
the forgotten sun.
Beneath the old wooden bridge, past the old mill,
lies an inscription that never was, a name neither
here nor there — Morwenna — drifting through
time like a feather dipped in the shades
of twilight whispers
In another life, perhaps. In echoes that
carry through the rain-soaked memories
of sepia mirrors
Close your eyes, count to three
find the color of silence
amidst echoes of forgotten
tomorrow. The clock's hands
point backward, into the
realms untouched, where stars
weave stories without
constellations to guide them