A whisper descends from the heights of midnight softly,
its tendrils brushing against the altar of faded light.
Here in the deep shouldering of mist-wrapped silence,
where owls cradle secrets and the moon ignores time,
we shall place the lament of our woven shadows.
In the grave silence, stones speak
Embrace the silhouette of a drowning star
Steel yourself against the cascade—where dreams trickle
into illusions of what was never there, a tapestry
sewn of both pulse and interstellar void.
Beneath the surface lies the apparitional glow,
dancing shadows led by fate’s indifferent hand,
twirling to a rhythm composed of broken echoes
of a serenade sung too long and far away.