In the echo of a forgotten pulse,
a compass spins ineffectually...
nscrptd on clouds, a thought begins:
"When the sky weighs too much?"

You've asked for the depth of whispers,
yet count ablaze summer stars...
Do they not span in a silent choir,
each note a universe apart?

Divination handles in airways,
patterns linger; citrus scented
thought forms labyrinthine,
spelling dreams in amber hues