In the pocket where starlight gathers whispers,
A clock without hands remembers the sound of color.
Why does lavender waltz through the rain,
Singing secrets to the tulip of dusk?
A pebble plotted trajectories across quantum puddles,
While dreams cast nets to catch the elusive spindrift of thought.
Eloquence slumbers on the tapestry of silence,
Spooning with a night's gentle thirst for echoes.
The mirror's edge speaks in riddles to the moth’s diapason,
Words curve into arcs, weaving shadows into melodies.
Everywhere, there is an unanswered serenade,
A cycle of invisible hands cradling the horizon’s paradox.
Continue weaving:
Disguised Words
Hidden Voices