They tread softly, these unwelcome air's neologisms— "Are we lodestones, adrift?” Breaths of ancient stars weaving, unsung songs in wavelengths unseen.
Innocuous witnesses: whispering clocks upon marble thrones, embedded gusts at precipices, shimmering riddle in drones of washen fog.
A spectre's questa, pierced as it wades— Ruins reap mention in coffee grounds, lacing traces of shadows. The moon bites at ragged edges: murmurings of moths.
Destiny tints shards with resonant gold, spilling secret tangents to eclipsing tonality. Yield to the whispered trances of fleeting existence.
Footfalls trace spirals on lost silks, tendrils of sound digitize. Hearts echo hymns when spoken in vacuums, don't step on destinies' lines— deep-dive the myth.