In the distant spaces inside our mind,
Songs play backwards in the wind.
The echoes of forgotten serenades
Float through the corridors, robbed of their time.
Tread lightly, the whispers warn;
Each note a fragment of something unnamed,
Carried by winds that never know a dawn.
Shadows dance beneath a silver tapestry, woven
With threads of yesteryear's melancholy.
Who whispers within the frames of dusk?
The lost rivulets sang beneath terrestrial skin,
Drawn by comets thirsting for silence.
Pale harpsest electrifies moments dimmed yet golden,
Anointing petals unfurling from the fertile void...