Whisper soft, celestial forms
hanging, despairing, above crumbling horizons
beyond which the sun stands silent in its embrace of twilight.
A journey begins, dwindling recognizance
as I step through the miasma, swept
into folds of ethereal vapor,
strands of lost time threading apart,
unraveling amidst the cries of distant seraphs.
From the curtains of mythology,
a portal to ether distills,
into these clouds where dreams forget their own names.
Did we not once etch our histories
across these skies with burning tongues,
in the rebellion of starfire against the dim ether?
Yet they tarry still, untouched, evaporating
depositories of cosmic tears
that stain the disappearing edge of the world.
I stand at precipices drawn
to forgotten shores of familiar lands,
where each horizon beckons tales long deferred.