Within this nook of erasure, sorrow begins where the silence thickens.
A scent of dusted tomes unsettles the air, each line a breath of a canvas never drawn, mirrors refracting ghosts yet to unfurl plans among the gnarled limbs of oaks.
The narratives untold, they lay patiently, like stone fragments along the fringes of oblivion, awakened in the stillness.
Haunted Echoes await beneath suffocating webs – indiscernible psalms whispered by tongues of moths.
Fragments intertwine, their meanings vacillate in the twilight-strewn air.
Revisit lost legends wrapped in dusk-encrusted threads . . .
Later, sorrowful glimmers fracture under waning stars, perhaps illuminating pathways steeped in obscurity.
The journey to recall what slips retains a shadow; a dart of memory disrupts each twilight.
This nook expands its parameters within the hardened fabric of prior narratives—yours and mine entwined against the twilight, an exquisite entrapment.
The woods are heavy; hear the pine recount tales.