In the twilight of cognition, the pencil murmurs
whispers of moons unwritten on the parchment sky.
A dance of lead and dreams, drawing shadows
in the colors that do not yet exist.
Hear the echoes
Beneath the surface of ink-stained memories,
lies a labyrinth of thought, winding and unwinding,
like gibbering ghosts in a forgotten sepulcher.
The more it writes, the more it understands
the kaleidoscope of silence, an orchestra of
paper and time, where each stroke of graphite
redefines eternity's canvas.
See the silent brush
A fragment of a dream, delineated in whispers,
glimpsed through the prism of waking vision.
And somewhere in the twilight, an everlasting
echo of the simplest tool, crafting realities
from the dust of forgotten stars.