Whispers of the cerulean dusk danced on the brink of the horizon, where
effervescent clouds mingled with the dying sun, an echo of laughter
remembers the gilded age of forgotten summers and sepia tones.
Beneath the archway of venerable oaks,
shadows play a silent play, trees’ leaves shimmering in an ethereal waltz
as murmurs form words only known to the guardian of the arboreal choir.
Songs never sung linger here.
In a glass bottle, sealed with sand and time,
lies a message yearning for the shores of reminiscence,
its sea-smell curdling into the quiet of landlocked nightmares.
Rustling memories, skimming tales of
forgotten fields where marigolds reign in dominion,
and sweet petals find solace in silent,
woven tapestries of time.
The clock's timid embrace and the soft
murmur of the wind through an empty
sterilized corridor, waking dreams write
ephemeral truths of what were never
intended, shadows speaking in tongues unlearned.