The sky whispers, a soulless hymn,
through the tapestry of flat dreams,
woven whispers, in silken refrains
of forgotten yesterdays.

Here in the meadows of thought,
the echoes move like shadows at dusk,
resonating waves, fractals in motion,
lost within the endless weave.

Words unspoken rise like dew,
suspended breaths in morning's grasp,
a crystalline silence that cries in color,
painting the horizon of the mind.