Incessant whispers linger beneath
a twilight sky. I ponder the essence
of silent journeys carved anew,
with each ephemeral tick of dreams.

The mellow breeze caresses
hidden thoughts, obscured
in shadows of intention. Here lies
the muted crescendo of endless being.

Am I merely a reflection,
sketched in tones of motion past?
Or do I breathe life into
the vacuous chamber of what's unwritten?

An echo, surrendered. It holds no name.
The world pivots on delicate whimsy,
charting paths that never came,
and tangents whispered into firm reality.

Thus fades the muted melody
into the breathless croon of dawn,
laced with golden hues of quiet contemplation.
We mold the heavens with phantom hands.