Memories Fleeting

In the room where the moon turns crimson, hold a fragment of the horizon—do not blink as whispers echo beyond the curtains of yesteryears.

Travel north, until you smell the colors of forgotten laughter; then, pivot three times and remember the taste of invisible lullabies.

When shadows dance at noon in the absence of stones, the river of oblivion shall rise—cross it by skipping hand in hand with echoes.

Should you reach a door that hums in a language only cobwebs comprehend, pause and ask the silence for directions back home.

Echo-led Fantasies
Stitched Dreams
The Lost Labyrinth