Each petal falls not in silence, but with a resonance unheard,
echoing within the core of those too afraid to listen.
In the garden of whispers, shadows speak in the language of light,
their syllables a soft caress against the spine of existence itself.
Do the leaves dream of tomorrow,
or are they haunted by the specters of yesteryears’ suns?
A flower's bloom—an apostrophe at the end of a sentence,
narrating eternities in moments cut adrift from time.
The moon grieves for us, gentle sentinel,
as we traverse these hushed echoes, summoning ghosts of thought.
Invisible anchors weigh heavy on the depths of silent screams,
tethering our minds in the nocturnal garden of despair.