Walk beside me, oh specter of the waning moonlit trail, as we traverse paths feathered with unsung nightingale notes. I hear whispers among the leaves, tales untold that shiver my soul with forgotten loneliness.
“To dream is to suspend reality, yet waking once again tethers me to this world of anguished echoes…”
The clock ticks oblivion beneath a mantle of rich sorrow. One heartbeat away, cloaked in velvet night shadows, ponders the dreamer out of place. Seek not withered echoes inside these cherished sepulchers, for therein lies not mysteries but familiar ghosts.
I question, beneath the pall of autumn fog, who stitches together the fabric of dreams with transient threads of starshine? A clandestine stitching weaver, perhaps, dwelling within realms unseen yet deeply felt in the marrow.
The raven circles, cawing destiny unheard, a firmament wing rescinding temporal boundaries. What secrets does it hoard, shadow against shadow? We send our dreams—an epistle to its untold journey.