In the quiet realm, where fingertips trace unseen shores,
The phantom limb rests—a specter of once-was, forever is.
It whispers softly, a muted song lost within hollow echo chambers,
Remnants of a touch that lingers in the air, yet never there.
Oh, intangible traveler,
Your path unknown to eyes,
But felt in every unturned stone,
In every breeze that passes by.
Shadows dance, reflections form,
Upon the canvas of absence,
Where you are, where you aren't—
The line blurs, reality bends in graceful arcs.
Here lie the stories never told,
Tales spun from threads of yesterday's dust,
In the silence of forgotten rooms,
Ghosts collect memories, one by one.
Dear spirit, dear remnant,
Your existence is the song,
The melody of what might have been,
Haunts the quiet, gentle and strong.
And so, we wander inner pathways,
Through gardens of spectral vines,
Each path a thread, each thought a stitch—
In the fabric of a life only half lived, whole.