Delicate Verses

The inkpot murmurs softly, holding whispers of what could have been, sliding like shadows on smooth paper beneath restless fingers...

A clock ticks somewhere, its voice echoing, echoing, like a heartbeat in an endless desert.

She once said, 'Time is a river without banks,' and I've been adrift since that day.

Reflections blur, becoming unwanted fragments, a mosaic of broken coherence.

Each droplet from the inkpot, a memory retraced in the silent corridors of a mind, forever seeking yet never finding.