Traces left by whispering shadows
upon the surface of a sleeping earth.
The clock speaks in riddles—
its hands spinning yarns
of forgotten tales and undiscovered paths.
In the forest of cracked reflections,
voices of an unseen chorus
sail upon the shimmer of moonlit tides.
Schrödinger’s cat naps in between worlds
his dreams tipped over
into the sleepy echoes of chance.
There exists a book—
pages written in invisible ink,
as breath patterns on glass,
a scribe unknown,
perhaps a phantom of the desert night.
Will you step through,
the pulsating circumference
down into another erratic
memoran__um__ orb____________is,
or simply let the thread unravel its own
chaotic beyond?