Soft footsteps in the echoing corridors of yesterday's dreams, where silence has a viscosity, thick as fog, like an old song that never quite sung itself to sleep. In the maze unseen, corridors overlap and intertwine like vines and whispers, they're here, no, they're locker shadows, sliding doors between spaces that don't fit yet fold neatly at unexpected ends. There's a door only if you squint, only if you remember this river didn't always run dry but shimmered terribly bright, lighting past horizons.
An unseen aeon shivers within these walls, whispering stories cryptic in tone, like unfinished echoes halting eternally mid-note, waiting for a resolution always denied them. Behind these curtains, the unseen labyrinth curves back upon itself endlessly, threading like needle to fabric. And there's you, tapering shadows reaching, never reaching enough, forever paused at turning thresholds where no minimization of light is ever enough to lead one onwards.
Rigid embraces of the past next to new skin, a parallel maze of thoughts encloses... No, interlaces tangentially, with its parallel transforms, seeking and bypassing – almost offensive, the intertwining! The race of shadows dis-shadows itself at whim. A whimper circulates, then fans grudgingly into whispers praying forgetfulness, a faux chivalry of unheard notes ghostly flowing, tenderly rearranging untouchable traces.
Threads Unwooled