In the Weave of Whispers
Each why behind a question mark lay nested in clouds, pale and wandering. Fantasies whispered down the veil, in nocturnal symphonies unsung. Beneath its canvas of azure dreams, a boy in the meadow listened...
The melody of the grass was ironed by whispers of time, threading seasons into silken bundles of memory. Old as the hills, new as tomorrow, the symphonies branched out like tangled fingers reaching for constellations that spoke to them.
Symphonies too, think, had starlight caught in their pause, breaking rhythm like deserted moons trailing through the core of heartbeats. Perhaps, we would sing one day about now, sweet prairies forming comments on tomorrows, occasionally stretched over silences, yet always circling back.
Drift in the news of cycles, the stories couched in warmth over soft clouds, that seldom believed the urgencies crouching in the minds of mortals below. Consequence was a winter tale no true symphony ever relished.