The echo of distant shores
dances on the periphery of sleep.
Have you tasted the fog that
clings to the mind's eye,
whispered secrets of sunken ships
forlorn at the edge of nowhere?
In the ink-curled margins of
pages yet written,
the sands of time slip between
fingers that never were.
Fathom the depth of a shadow,
once more, beneath the cobalt arch
of azure's insanity.
The horizon is a lie we tell ourselves,
a trick of light and
mirage of syllables lost on the wind.
Embrace the absurdity
of its curved solitude,
a celestial loner
caressed by impossible threads
of woven horizons.
Listen to the rhythm of the
echoing abyss,
dance with its pulse,
and let go of tethered thoughts
to sail the silent mutiny of your
inner ocean.