The abyss speaks a language not taught but felt, coursing through silent strings of endless formations.
Far below the lucid gaze of stars,
in the coved shadows of the brown sea floor,
the silent breath forms an echo barely audible.
A hymn in monochrome silence — a chorus without sound, gathering dust.
From that deep mind, the constellation grows; cold and fervent,
in infinite forms — longing to merge with the translate-less greet of time.
The ceaseless flow of gravities from heliacal endpoints, assimilating calibers to chronicle.
Here, where the caverns above whisper the silence of ashes, sonance becomes form.
Through this ambivalent stillness, a nebula diverges, incubating manifestations of hushed grandeur.
Graphite thoughts swim in pools beneath the inky caverns, fractaled into amphoricness.
A rich magnitude of continuity — an output of galactic bewilderment,
where echoes learn to dissolve the vibrating recollections.