Crimson echoes in the dawn mist, advice from nowhere floating beyond the horizon.
Sleepy horizons weave the fabric of twilight, writing on liquid dreams.
Crescent murmurs caress silver trees: a quiet symphony in the twilight swell.
Behind the door, whispers flicker; soldiers of time march through an endless corridor.
Connectedness? Oft amiss; tunes of marigold and dreams obscure
Conductors of the unseen — they play, they guide, they dance.
Hover over wisps, let go of gold, chase paths intertwined.
Eyes closed, against a backdrop of celestial ink; lies the true story.