Golden morsels of gentility drift into the tapestry of oblivion,
where waking dreams whirl in a delirium of bitter sweetness.
Dance, oh celestial whispers; dance upon illuminating winds,
the mist that tenderly caresses reality's veil beyond which
ages of stories reside unspun.
Should these clocks without time unclick their clasp on oblivion?
manifold grains of cosmic dust embrace wilting daffodils,
and through gossamers flowens the gentle truth, woven of silken time.