In the sepulchral embrace of the midnight hour, whispers chant the forgotten nulla.
Echoes of dreams, languid and stale like cigarette smoke, slip through stained glass panes.
Once, they sang of rivers, but the waters dried into shadow and ash.
The record spins, the needle skipping over verses—
Lonely trees, mausoleum's winds, yesterday's ghosts.
Fingertips trace lyrics unspoken, lost in a crypt beneath the cobwebbed clock.
A railroad of stars, crossing nothing, yet destined to repeat.