Eidolon
Flicker, flicker, where shadows weave tales beneath the surface of tranquil waters. The clock yearns to reverse, unraveling time's tapestry, yet the webs crochet onward.
Silent specters wander a hushed hallway of longing, searching for warmth in echoes of laughter. Truth is a specter of a dream that never passed — like dew evaporating as sun cradles it tenderly.
Envision a realm where hues bleed into themselves, creating endless corridors of chromatic flair. Sunlight dances, fragmented into shards of reverie, fading just as quickly as they ignite.
Do you remember the market stands where voices thrummed in unseen synapse? Somewhere beneath feet crafted from longing sat a box, the box, all was contained in it.
In liquid hours, we are whispers beneath the eyelid's shore. Noble treasure of the starstruck sky whirls, and touches the key, but nothing ever remains, except the whirr, the song of machines.
Further Spectral Musings
Shadow Anthology