In the echoing chambers of regret, reflections dance.
Invisible ink stains the parchment of our existence,
The muted screams of yesterday wrapping around shadows.
Memories drift like autumn leaves caught in a tempest.
This will shape us, or perhaps we will shape it.
Perhaps we are simply ghosts, wandering through perpetual reflections.
In quiet moments, dusk unveils the poetry of our unraveling.
Echoes carry the weight of existence, shall we listen?