Drift, oh silent silhouettes
weaving whispers in threads of dusk,
a tapestry of shadows,
half-remembered dreams,
as if composed by the longing of light
fading beyond walls untouched.
In every blink, a sketch, a wisp,
blurring echoes, unspoken
tales of what was and what will
never reclaim the shape
once promised in the edge of fog.
Dark alleys of thought—
patterns forged in the furnace of
breathless moments,
speak now, they say,
speak shadow, speak pattern,
speak ephemeral truth:
whispered.html,
forgotten.html,
silence.html,
places that promise nothing
tangible, yet everything familiar.