Linger we, in the dappled twilight, as whispers of unseen petals speak in tongues velveteen. These fragments, once phoenix in the mind's alcove, now mere mist unto the waking soul. A query to the shadows: What lore do you cradle?
Upon the gnarled boughs of memory's tree, the leaves of yore flicker with the tales not told. They murmur secrets to the soil, rich and loamy, the keeper of ancient sighs. Were these not the words, beloved, that grazed your dreams last night as you traversed time on a silvered thread?
Behold, the grove, unseen to the eye direct, yet felt by the heart's veiled embrace. Here, where the sun weeps rainbows unto the oblivion, there lies the doorway to keep a candle lit for the forgotten. A passage perhaps...