In the crevices of forgotten thought
palimpsests of an erased dream linger:
scribbles in ashes,
echoes of what was
The whisper promised clarity, but left only shadows.
Over the interstices of history, shadows breathe.
This map, once vibrant, grows dimmer,
its lines softening into spectral grooves.
Who penned this history,
now obscured, trembling
upon the precipice of
now?