Behold, the ink still clings to sepulchral letters—
A gathering of momentary sighs, beseeching embrace,[Twilight Shadows] yet never reaching.
What haunts those avenues, long paved by silence of ink? A love letter to the dead? An invitation never sent?
Consider the sapience of wrapped stones laid inside the wood’s embrace;
The conspiracy of lives unlived yet lingering like moths, fiery upon a hidden altar.
Beneath the pallid skin of sleep, we heard the echoes, unused:
"I lament that solemn harvest, the grave is a place, not a threat—" Phantom Threads.
Details slip away, obsessively resumed:
Forgotten, yet resolutely affectious.
Ornate echoes crawling from fibers between dust-induced planes.
Time breaks as opposites triumph, metamorphosed husks agitate betwixt pained remembrance and forsaken anticipation.
The Gaze Beyond beckons with it’s ethereal mystery; open it for your trembling heart.
A scrawl on parchment held the secret of the beings unheard; dread whispers pooling on the fringes of twilight calling one still as fragrant rose wilted.