Whispers of the Forgotten

Fleeting, like shadows crossing dusk, remnants of dreams that slip through grasping fingers. A clock ticks silently, dissecting moments where nothing and everything reside. Clouds twist in frantic gestures above forlorn landscapes, while whispers echo in the deep recesses of cosmic absence.

Did we speak of the lavender tides? Or was it the taste of rain upon parched lips, the silence before thunder dances on the horizon? Ebbing thoughts bleed into crisp pages of old tomes, crumbling, untouched in musty corners. Today's anxiety; tomorrow's poetry.

In the rhythm of footfalls, a melody of abandonment, searching for the wild carrot amidst an overgrown yard—do you remember? A decrepit swing creaking, tethered to laughter on a sun-beaten day, as a child stares into the abyss of their imaginings.

Glimmering coordinates drawn upon the skin of night, constellations of forgotten words tangled in youthful intrigue. While the universe suppresses its sighs, we gather fragments like splintered glass—sharp, beautiful, dangerous.