Once adrift in the spaces of forgotten consciousness,
an orb weaver spins argent threads of memory. They tangle,
they cling, they shimmer in the distance like sky-bound sirens—
calling us to a waterless shore.

What does it mean for a moment to shimmer?
What lisps between the notes of eroding time?
In murky silences, voices lose contour, flesh without breath,
partitioned between calm unending.

Navigate the prism of nowhere:
azure-wrapped nebula
through crystalline glass
into the hidden city spoken in verse