Stars breathe
shimmering whispers
through the silent corridors of eternity.
There's a place where
the moon takes off its mask,
reflecting
ethereal shadows
on ripples of forgotten dreams.
Imagine the minds
woven with threads
of cosmic dust,
like galaxies stitched
onto a dark fabric
of consciousness past.
Pulsing in the telescope's view,
blended timestamps.
When the wind speaks Nebulae,
we listen,
ready to forsake oxygen
for the silent orchestra that possibly echoes
only in the madness of thought.