In the solace between moments, where the breath of the wind kisses the silence,
stands the heart of an echo, listening—ever longing for a voice lost in shadows.
The sky wears its nightshade like a gaunt cloak, threadbare at the seams with stars
that hum a hymn to the ceased shadows, drifting through corridors of dream.
An embrace—a shiver when the refrain draws its cold fingertips against the skin;
this is a lull spoken softly among shrinking glints of silver.
What secrets weave through specters, dissolving in vapor,
held by undercurrents of melody swarm below, a well for souls to sip by?
Twilight stretches, a panel drawn across windows ajar—we are but daydreams of night.
Feigned light spills through somber, drear crisscross cries of crossbeams jagged,
where whispers gather dusts unspoken, old stones murmured once silent swathes.
All breaths held—beneath a wing of somnolent night, held still is the refrain.