Flicker. Whisper. Shadows dance with clandestine reverie.
She was there, or was she not? A ghost beyond the edge of twilight.
The projector whirred like a dying star,
casting echoes in luminescent ink.
Distant forms relay their secrets through cerulean haze,
fragmented smiles painted on blank canvases.
A mime with eyes of endless depth gazes into the void,
silent thunder roars past the curtain that separates worlds.
Enigma, oh sweet enigma! Can you catch the sliver of dawn
leaking through the cracks of your caprice?
The light has much to say, told only by those who listen
in the language of shadows trapping ricocheting whispers.
Time, it seems, forgot the patter of her feet
as they danced in moonlit waltz across the empty screen,
mourning in their silent reprise, bold movements
of a story unsung, unread, seen only in dreams.
Is the light a prison of clarity,
a gilded cage for wandering specters?
Or is it a key, whispering Türen aufschlüsseln
to the riddled heart of night?