In the lavender dawn, murmurs drift ethereally
Beneath cobblestone memories, smooth yet cracked
Talk of what never was leans against a forlorn streetlamp
They whisper, not for answers, but for keeping their shadowy places.
Songs once sung between crumbling walls, faded
I hear them when I thread through autumn's gold
Ghostly hands braiding silence into sweet strands of sound
Like promises made at the edge of a dream, tempered by morning's grasp.
Lonesome benches cradle moments unthoughts caught in webs
Air, a tapestry of promises laced with silver whispers
An elegy scattered in waltz—rustling leaves, their verdant voice proof against time's quiet obliteration.