Ocean of Dreams, Now a Atlantis of Sighs

Once, the tempest spoke to me in whispers of crystal, weaving dreams with yarn threads washed ashore.
Irony echoes louder in caverns carved by moonlit madness.
Have our dreams too, become flotsam adrift in the wake of purposeful forgetfulness?

An ocean holds stories draped in sediment and irony, languid thoughts marooned on liquid time.
Circular waves patter echoes of ambitions—what became?