The echo of silent whispers, ever so far,
beckons invoices through sacred doorways
veiled by shadows, swaddled in velvet dusk.
The old scribe's blundered script
rests here, amongst dust and starlit specks:
a parchment both ancient and ethereal.
Within these walls,
ghosts of the ephemeral recount
tales of forgotten tomorrows.
There lies another passage
where chronicles whispered cease their breath,
melodies undulating through aeons, seeking refuge.
Seek invisible corridors within your soul,
unmarked destinations await enkindling
of dormant truths.
Turn the page
anew and azure, the resonance of yore echoes
through amber-lit vacancies.
The clocks do not tick here, nor do they tell
a tale of the liminal stasis one inhabits
between waking garden dreams and tapestry reflections.
Let words unfold
upon the eldritch tongues of the once-lived,
where to speak is to remember how.