Within the tendrils of nightfall, a voice murmurs—
a dissonant harmony woven through the tapestry of time.
Shadows, silhouettes of timeless whims,
dancing over the embers of lost moments.
Philosophers of the spectral realm, casting nets of memory
across the void to capture echoes of the sun’s warmth,
spoken into existence and yet unheard,
drifting upon the silent currents of darkened seas.
A reflection, or perhaps an illusion,
of the past’s fleeting serenade.
They do not remember the whispers of the breeze,
nor the caress of dawn upon their weary souls.