In the loom of moonlit reveries,
there hung a whisper, frail and shy.
Drenched in the colors of invisible mango days
and indigo nights.
The stitch of time breaks,
unraveling tales of what could have been.
Across the woven canvas,
a map of constellations retreating.
Every star a forgotten name,
every name a door left ajar.
Within these fibers lies the echo
of laughter in realms beyond reach.
Would you weave a new path through the twilight's silence?
Click here to touch the untold.
Between now and then, a gap
vast as oceans, shallow as sighs.
The ancients murmur through cracked windows,
their stories braided through rain-soaked whispers.
Seasons shift, leaving only dust encore,
yet in this dust, find the birth of forgotten galaxies.
And in the silence, we stand
on stitches of fading gold, lost yet wholly present,
forever slipping between sunlit beams.
Who spins the wheel of forgotten suns?
If we listen deep, we might just hear
their song in fragments,
the melody of fibers.