A whispering cascade of memories, echoes drifting upon
starlit beams—Did the moon crumple in the morning's cup of tea?
The oceans wane, receding footsteps behind the veiling mist,
as crows caw sonnets unwritten, lost to the timber's rustle.

Can you hear, oh, can you hear
the clock's rusted sigh against the wallpaper of time?
Dreams slip through the gaps,
sand in glass gone awry; visit the shores and greet them with laughter.

I saw a lady dancing with fireflies,
her shadow longer than sky,
weaving tapestries of the absurd,
where the conversation itself becomes a tapestry.

When the tides of sanity ebb, we grow
roots against the fickle shores,
anchoring thoughts to the depths of
rivers unseen—scatter but gather, they whisper.