In the folds of tomorrow's whispers, somewhere between the tick and tock, the clock diverges. There's a clock without hands ticking, and its song is sung in skipping stones on unseen waters. Set pour the tea, let the leaves dance in their arabesques before they settle. The poem doesn't end; it merely transforms into another shape, another shadow.
Roads not taken paint their stories in a symphony of colorless hues. Beneath painted skies, realities undiscover linger like the last notes of a symphony, echoing down empty corridors. Listen, for the footsteps are melodies too, cradled by the wind and filtered through history's sieve.
Words unravel like threads from a remote loom, weaving tapestry upon tapestry of unseen yesterdays. Find the absence, and the presence unveils itself; in the chiaroscuro of the conscious, where emotions play hide and seek behind abstractions.