Moonlit Confit

What was once a whisper now echoes in kaleidoscope winds.

The celestial beings thread their silken tales beneath the alabaster glow.

Crushed dreams are potted in moonlight, waiting for shadows to dance.

Thoughts drift through pale imaginings like phantoms in a forgotten garden.

They speak in images; a toddler with a clock, winding soft fabric around lamplight.

Forked tongue amusing itself on tin plates of frost.