Beneath canopy whispers, roots grasp at dreams where morning haze curls like thoughts unlived, the wrinkles in bark measure time unknown, etching stories in the language of hollow winds. Echoes of sleeping songbirds, recalls the once echoed cries of invented realities — a realm untouched.
Time existed once here when shadows laid claim to conscious, yet what's felt are residues, ghosts of touch linger yet seeps into long-forgotten past. These twisted limbs, embracing shadows, the night’s quiet promise weavered into the fabric of the sky above.
Listen as remnants embed into the soles of wandering feet, unveil the paths unseen, cracking serpentine codes harboring cobalt hues against ashen ground. A keeper of secrets open wide, eternally welcoming fragments resurfacing from twilight-lapse of days elongated.
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