“Time accidentally befriended eternity in a rarely spoken tongue of silence.” Witness when the clock slips to embolden its hand, what muse emerges?.
Beyond the glass, reflections leap into woodland slumber, where thoughts turn to ether, a forgotten trail of whispers. Do they cease to exist or merely echo?.
Shadows curtsey beneath the vault of lilac scents, counting breaths as verses to clandestine songs only daydreamers know. How many lives does oblivion cradle in its endless embrace?
In realms where whispers are known to have faces, stars blink in Morse confined to minds that dn’t dare to wake. Is there a lexicon only dreams use?