In the gloaming, where shadows murmur sweet nothings to the pines,:

Whispers etch paths along breaks in the night's cloak, guiding lost echoes home.

A compass lies with no needle, compass-less it spins, chattering tales of forsaken routes:

The iris of the unseen travels through veiny maps etched in twilight ink.

Spiraling through velvet skies punctuated by uncooked stars above resting ground:

The sorrowed seagulls gossip in sulfury tongues about oceans never crossed.

The gypsy cartographer weeps at mistakes only the ink understands:

Time melds into scented paradises—an eternal sigh wares the void.