Waxen figures drift through my slumber, silent as the graves which they inhabit. Shadows wrestling with splinters of silver moon—how quietly they whisper your name, longing for what time has stolen, canvas now encased in pitch.
Darkness sprawls, yet identity wavers— oscillating, intruding, exulting; kaleidoscopic tremors snaring transient realities behind smoke-veiled windows.
Dance of ShadowsWhen dust settles betwixt silenced breaths, one finds eternity filling fleeting voids—narratives entwined in brittle whispers.
The umbra unveils the concealed curiosity, exploring the juxtaposition of light and night; reflections in victory over whispered loss. Chains rattle in symphony nests hidden malice... yet was it yours, too?
Pattern in the Mist