Fragments of a song I whispered
When sunlight bathed the autumn leaves
In hues of memories.

Stuck in the attic, boxes forgot
A compass, broken, spins aimlessly.
Tell the thespians a new play is unwritten.

Dreams, not mine but sewn
From brittle seams of history
Stories demanding glasses of
Something unspoken by electric worlds.

Echoes of conversations
Had on shivering steam-filled café windows
The names fade, the press of time obscured.