dawn never came; the sky, a deep ocean hue, rings in reverse—a melody forgotten. footsteps trace old paths, carved by shadows, whispers of what the heart can no longer hold. the wind sings back the secrets that never knew the light, pulling threads from this woven tapestry of silence.
once the leaves spoke in tongues, now mere echoes cling to branches like spectres. do we remember who we are beneath the stars? a clock ticks backwards, not in defiance, but in a dance—a serenade for those who understand the language of the night. listen closely, the rhythm of the moon guides us.
paths cross again, faces obscured under veils of night mist. conversations begin before they're ever spoken; smiles exchanged through the fog. are we the echoes or hearers of them? a question posed to the wind, carried away, a fleeting notion like the last breath of winter.
perhaps a dream once told of a soft rain falling up, awakening the stars. the symphony plays on, an orchestra unseen, unseen yet felt, beneath the skin, in the marrow—it hums, it thrums, this night of echoes.