In the shadowed echo of night
whispers curve like unstrung lyres.
Between each breath, a silence bitter,
twenty points remain, duller than mourning stars.
The truth, we learn, is rarely beautiful,
a tapestry woven from strands of ugliness.
The path carved by choice, or non-choice,
unbidden groves held in wistful hands,
whispering the cadence of dreams unlived.
Click to wander through forgotten passageways,
abandoned journeys,
ephemeral moments,
forever on the cusp of not-quite-there.