The little boy once found, in the attic so near, a book bound in shadows, and whispers unclear.
Each page turned gave voice to a bedtime tune, sung softly under a silver sleepy moon.
But twas not a story he’d ever read. It swirled like night mist, mist over things never said.
The trees outside, they hummed along, familiar like a half-forgotten lullaby song.
Did you know doors sometimes open to fields of golden light? Or was it just twinklings of fireflies at twilight?
Would you dance with shadows had you known their names?
Underneath peach trees, in cool dewy grass, a song of the sky sails by and wears glass.
moth whispers contemplate lightAs he read it made sense, though not sure how, it made more solace than any blank star would allow.