Through the echo, they arrive,
shadows woven in moistened ink.
Ghosts of history, spinning tales,
their tongues craddle the spoken void.
Marrow truths bleached on the altar,
written, rewritten, and still those who knew observe.
Silence is a dense veneer on sage wood,
amplifying each pause that breathes life.
Once, they were gods of proclivity,
etching dinnerware for spectral feasts.
Yet here, held paradigm too rigid to break,
and laughter launched between astral seats.
Could we measure a heart’s desire
through glyphs transfigured to melodies?
Man caught in cadence—Oh! The music mocks us,
each letter a wheel on an imperfect path.