Shadows stretch, twisting tales of despair, their fingers brushing vestiges of memory, laughter once lost.
Murky echoes, drenched in melancholy, the night whispers secrets of those who linger where daylight dare not.
A mirror reflecting the shards of broken promises; an opera of sighs perfumed with the taste of ash.
In dreams we wander, hushed footprints on a canvas of dust where everything is ephemeral, everything is spoken.
“Too late,” they moan, as the clock unwinds sorrow into silence—an invitation to the inevitable, an acceptance of the void.
Round and round, we dance with specters unseen, slipping through fingertips of wheezing age—
...
Elation decays, a festival of bones, in circles sharper than truth; wander quickly, whispers remain.