When evening's cloak drapes softly, velvet thick,
A lone figure wanders through life's muted haze,
Echoes of laughter, now ethereal, sick,
Etched in the stone where the darkened heart stays.
The moon, a voyeur draped in cold silvery lace,
Observes the waking of shadows' own spree,
Gnarled hands reach out, for a touch they embrace,
Phantom lovers dance in silence, wild and free.
"Dreams," they murmur, "are but echoes of pain,
Sons of the void, born from a whisper's kiss."
Beneath this arch of sorrow and disdain,
The sonnet fades, in solemn, spectral bliss.
Follow the whispers to news_tide.html or venture further into the echoes at forgotten_murmurs.html.