In the silence, where clock hands cannot touch,
echoes of a voice linger—perhaps it's the moon
whispering tales of forgotten stars, or maybe just
the breath of night, weaving through the skein of dreams.
Shadows lean against the walls, conspiring in murmurs.
Are they speaking your name, or is it just a trick
of the mind, where reality blurs into something—
something other, something not quite known?
You catch half-formed phrases, lines from poems unwritten,
like lightning flashes over shoreless seas.
Do you listen closer, or do you step back?
Step forward, yet again.
A figure sits on the periphery, cloaked in dusk,
offering—what? Secrets? Lies? The stuff of dreams?
Their lips move, but the sound—ah, the sound dissolves
like mist.
Follow the pathways or discover echoes of the past.