The echo of a whisper on the edge of consciousness,

like the gentle ripple of a stone cast into an abyss.

Formless thoughts swirl, drawn yet distant.

Eternal horizons fade into incomprehensible shapes, shadows

stretching across the memory of a dream once dreamt.

Where did the stars go, or were they ever there at all?

We move like echoes, and, in movements, find the whispers.

Here, solitude weaves its own tapestry.