Whisper the hue of horizon to nimbostratus, Only then may teal lanterns glow beneath cirrus sheets. Turn left at the invisible lighthouse, scale the intangible mount of mist.
In the distance, a mariner's compass pulses faintly, Marking dreams that drift on shifting atmospheres. Seek the azure where shadows whisper, listen to the silence.
When decorous rain falls with no sound, Add a cupful of sunlight to a shadow box at noon. The temperature of brevity understands no scale, Yet calico binds the fragments seamlessly.
Once desaturated echoes quiver in tidal time, Leftovers from the sky's quilt hold no destination. Instead, walk in circles until horizons converge, And even so, there's nothing but whispers of dawn.