Perhaps the stars do whisper secrets,
languishing in cosmic shadows thought to grasp the sun.
But what of the skybodies undisturbed,
chained to clocks anchored in dreamless seas?
Return to the Beginning
A tapestry of an era spun in silence,
woven by hands unseen—yet, felt in the marrow
of souls drifting through liquid astral.
Does time remember, or is remembrance a song sung by stardust?
Follow the Pattern
Ghost orbs dance in quantized steps,
marking spaces not theirs, leaving
traces of laughter without sound,
reflections upon reflections—
does identity dissolve in the endless weave?
Endless Weave