In the cobwebbed corners of silent dreams,
where yesterday's echoes
softly sing,
a serenade of nowhere unfurls,
winding its way through
half-remembered dream corridors.
When the shadows hum low,
names turn to whispers,
maps fold themselves.
On paths unseen,
silhouettes weave stories,
of doors ajar,
and windows
taken to the air.
Underneath the seams of night,
between the breaths of dawn,
lies a melody unplayed,
a harmony of roads
that never were,
and always will be.
Do they weave your name,
or echo the secrets
of a forgotten wind?