And again the dawn breaks with hesitant embers; three whispers echo persistently, repetitively,
weaving threads spun thin, unraveling
... navigated by dreams and fears, the fog common,
oh how it rises!
Velvet shadows skip cautiously between now and never, reflecting on glimmering afterthoughts.
Embrace once again the hollow echoes of familiar paths,
never far, finding solace in religionless hymns; perhaps they live
within this whispered breeze?
Is there music in silence? Parse your questions underneath the stale choir
hidden beneath peeling layers, those mottled crescendos echo backward—
a sunken consola replete with novelties.
Listen! Split jade houses shatter refracted discontent
, yet they've caught their stars,
torchlit by the same blind illumination.
Return the refrain here, there, everywhere,
where warmth might not tread upon footsteps.
Create circled squiggles on dew-kissed pages—mark your symphony in soft hands conducting introspection,
or brush over another page without influence.