Time, an illusion of flow, Each moment, but a fleeting note, Memory ambers, sung backward, Harmonies of unknown amplitude.
What if whispers returned, Voices reclaimed their spectrum, Chasing echoes at dusk, Fumbling for moments laden in night.
Sound etches its history, A loop of reflections both faint and fierce, Consequences scattering like shadows, Across the tapestry of forgotten dreams.
Consider narratives unwound, Layer upon layer peeling, Just like onion skins departing, Each revealing depths invisible yet profound.
Surge the soft syntax of ages, Riding the waves of uncertainty, Lead, if you dare, into looping realms, Catch breaths lost to the throes of reflection.
Wander uncharted paths of prose, Perhaps to echoes of time, Or even fractured melodies.