Beneath the zenith of cloudy cotton constructs
linger echoes of starlight's murmur.

Every wisp drawn softly, a distant memory,
sculpted silently by wind, by dreams
of those who wander ceaselessly
in skies paler than dawn.

Here flickers a glimpse:
distant echoes
o'er the currents of breath,
carried by hands unseen.

Encased in clouds, lost somewhere between
the whispering past and the expectant future,
truth softens into indistinguishable hues.
Listen, and you might hear
the forgotten tales breezing through
the fabric of a woven tapestry unspun.

In valleys of vertical solitude,
the visible
hides beneath halos of nothingness.