When the moon whispers in woven silks,
the walls listen—dyed echoes cradle unseen threads.
And in the quiet, where whispers fall, fingers trace
forgotten seams of a story left unspun.
A pile of stars rests on the windowsill,
draped across the arch of a low-bent door.
They flicker gently, like slumbering eyes,
marred by forgetfulness, bedraggled and worn.
Occasionally, the wind passes through,
as if checking the cashmere tapestries for integrity,
but none suffer as much as the velvet lies,
spun quietly beneath the hum of sleeping machinery.
The lullabies carry tales of unraveling tongues,
stitched into the cool linen of dawn’s approach.
Unthreaded wrongs lie waiting with patient resolve,
moths drawn to light they are not yet willing to comprehend.