Inkpot Mirror

In the stillness of the ink,
I see faces with no names,
Their histories, palimpsests unfurl on fogged glass,
Recited by lips of the empty night.

No footsteps linger on this shore
Where silent waves displace thought with salt,
Just the silent hum of parchment,
Scribing errors of its truth.

And whispers scatter like dried petals,
Upon the intrigue of a mirror's hush,
Beneath starlit endurance,
They dissolve – into echos' flights.