A whisper under the breath of fog—its dense fingers gripping the unseen. Beneath
the breath of the mist, a hidden path lies dormant, waiting.
Your pulse matches the erratic heartbeat of forgotten stories,
dancing in your thoughts like shadows in moonlit glades.
The path is not marked. Yet, if you listen closely,
it can be felt underfoot, beneath the surface of a waking dream.
Behind every fog-draped tree: The echoes of what was once right,
or wrong, left unsaid, linger still.
Perhaps there was a sign, a written word scrawled in
the’ whispering night—yet as dawn approaches,
it eludes capture. Sometimes, words fall like
autumn leaves, their intent obscured