The Riddle of Dreams

In echoing chambers where whispers are born,
The ceiling drips moonlight through bars of yawn.
Shadows dance on the edge of perception—
One foot on waking, another in the maze.

Listen close to the murmurs in twilight, an orchestra of unsaid farewells. The hands that brush across the surface of space, they follow the ordained path of dreams where touch meets only vapor.

Amidst the delicate literals, find words spilling into pastels:

Pain, yet sweet as citrus blooms.
Seeker glides upon echoes.
Anchor of light, tethered to rust.
Memory of a thumbprint on whisper.
Night gathers the scattered pulse of stars.

What do phantom limbs miss, trying to embrace unseen form? Maybe to touch the invisible staircase up to nowhere or to run fingers over the horizon at

Delicate Transmission.

For every riddle, the answer is trapped in a question yet unheard, lying coiled among twilight's fabric.