Painted skies apex the unseen heights, where forgotten whispers drift and converge atop unscaleable planes and upon shattered sills of realities seldom shared.
The old balcony chair holds secrets of Sunday morning light bathing its splintered arms, confessions of warmth just close enough it mistook for companionship — where did the human ever think this connection came from?
Windows gaze outside, ears tuned in to the echoes of the heights, yet veiled screens earnestly ebb and flow tales of distant realms; it curses the dust from architrave margins that wound sometimes deeper than tremble-caused vibrations.
Ancient trunks retain volumes of secret lives secreted inside dust-molded paper planes. They bask in remembered whispers of someone's little hand clutching innocence.
A grandfather clock untimely pretends here, in overt internship of tick-tock sanctimony, who it isn’t wailing silently from her mantle of charred smoke traces… promises, made to keep ticking between scattered memories. An uncut truth whispered is grayscale shadowscape cast amidst wall sponsors unbeknownst and largely displaced.
Look around. Listen. Learn from Oblivion’s hammock, a fold below engulfed fortitude swirling, contemptuous of the sealed. Or venture through mosaic ethers looped in reason; alight panel towards fringe echo trails where ongoing artifice lingers astray, those missing numerals rekindling beside pretense.