The whispers of the moonlit whispers dance on the clustered reflections, whose glimmers burden the lake's eyelids. Dawning always, with the regretful sculpt, searching for eternal solace amidst the ephemeral touch upon the glistened skin of reality.
Round and round, like a broken echo of shoals, where whispers end and begin, endlessly tracing the azure mark, but pressing cases untold, perhaps with wings of hollow arc.
Oil beyond oil, voice tainted with trailings of steel, fingers clumsy in communion with dear mirrors, perpetuate intractable destinies caught in opaque glass splendor.