The streetlamp flickered not at all,
casting a shadow of memory upon an echo of what never was.
Glimmer
A moth sings to the moon, yet it whispers not,
for the night is a tapestry of unseen colors.
A foghorn in the desert, its voice lost to the
dunes that swallow sound, light, and the minds of men.
Illuminate
The child's laughter paints walls of whispers in
the absent hall, where dreams live simply to dream.
And so, we dance in circles under invisibility's
gentle caress, where even shadows seek solace in light.