the clock whispers when nobody listens, its hands shake not out of glee nor sorrow but an enigmatic embrace...
clouds that look like bears laugh loudly at each second being devoured with relish like candies left out in summer rain...
whispers carried by the wind claim they saw you turning into stardust, fragments trailing behind, sniffing the dim heartbeat of a moon wailing alone...
a child's melody flows over the hills, climbing, contacting crystal towers waiting for skies to open up in tickled frenzy...
the echo in the caves just rambles on, murmuring of past futures in a language only the bats now understand...
wilting flowers that grow downward towards things we will never say, anchoring wishes with petals razored by time...
...and so the ground opens not with tremors but with a kind of tender ache for secrets long since forgotten beneath marbles and ephemeral glows of rockets...
chapters of forgotten lullabies, scattered through the breaths of dreams, shuffle in evening hues as whispers follow.