A whisper lingers, split, then whole, enveloped by shadows.
I am that echo trembling — within — waiting, as if time forgets the rhythm of my breaths.
The shells are mirage cloisters, fang-deep in salt and brine.
Here they linger, voices, wind-stroked sirens calling from deep, their sheen cannot hide the truth:
"Did you rise, or fall, in the fog-swayed path?"
You whisper back, though, what tales speak beneath pain and waterfall echo-by-echo?
Perhaps a search for... that tiny glimmer,
or maybe step into slumber's embrace instead.