The cosmos observes in silence while words take flight upon freshly desecrated soil. Stars, once vibrant, governed by lost gravities, now dance freely in earthly histories written under such far-off mantles.
There are remnants of distant fires scattered among the ashes—we speak as if ghosts linger, watching, waiting, their queries answered in cacophonous silence. Bridging existence, whispers woven into tales now told of tangible beholding, not spectral seeking.
I walk within this illusion, touch the phantom weight of cosmic dust. It settles, leaving traces upon senses awash. Senses bound and breaking from inertia, lending tangibility to soundless calls directed by unseen navigators.
Trace onwards | Shadows without