In the hushed hum of machinery
voices synthetically entwined
like tendrils in the mist,
weaving the fabric of yesterday's ambitions.
The office chair creaks in rhythm
to the dance of unseen specters,
who file reports from dreams,
abstract memos trapped in time's web.
Catch the whispers, let them float,
through the sieve of intention.
Are they echoes of futures or
shadows of paths not taken?
Only the dreamcatcher's silence knows.