Flowing Silence

In a garden of waning echoes, the silence speaks in twisted tongues.
Midnight cradles shadows, whispering secrets to the moon-touched leaves.
Pathways carved from forgotten dreams lead nowhere but to flowing rivers
of spectral currents.

Beneath the surface, a glimmer speaks (of things that were not meant to)... a silent scream, woven through the fabric of ember shadows,
stitching time—
The hands that reach cannot touch. Reflections dance on the periphery, refracting whispers.

Arm extended, tracing contours of an absent presence,
grasping air—
eternity wrapped in fragile echoes. Hear without hearing, touch without touching
in realms untapped—where sight dissolves.

Here is where the night-bird sings (in hues unseen)—a lullaby to deep dwellers.
The woven sky cannot hold;
threads succumb to gravity. Embark the unseen on highways paved in reverence.