there are pathways woven in the tapestry of dusk,
threads of silver light weaving through the
seams of forgotten myths and laughter echoing
from realms unseen,
yet strangely familiar.
Whispers, they say, are but echoes of moments
lost in the folds of time, fleeting
like the dance of shadows under a waning moon.
Listen. Close your eyes,
open the mind's gate where only starlight dares to wander.
The horizon stretches and yawns,
a sigh escaping from the lips of eternity.
Edges become mirages,
and in this mirage, the world spins on a secret axis,
whispered by dreams half-remembered.
Symbols etched in the soft dust of a forgotten
path; they pulse, align, realign
like the silent rhythm of a breathing earth,
and you feel it—an ancient song
weaving through your veins.
Thresholds to portals,
gateways cloaked in the mundane, waiting
for curious souls to stumble upon
their secrets—an invitation
etched in cosmic irony.