Fleeting Horizons
In the hollow where whispers settle,
stories untold dance their deathly jig.
Mortals tracing serpentine paths...
Endless spirals into forgotten dusk.
Here lie destinations of absurdity, where the brave go to reclaim their misplaced socks from the laundry of existence. Beyond the laundromat, past the field of misplaced dreamcatchers, you will find the lost art of sitting quietly in places you're not supposed to, quietly pondering the essence of mustard.
Cradle of stars,
embrace the nocturnal winds,
sing soft hymns to your sleepy devices.
Forget, forget, the serpentine sirens calling.
One may find solace in the corners of the world where bicycles rust in peace, waiting patiently for their owners’ long-deferred return. This is where the sun paints shadows, not as companions, but as insidious reminders of light's betrayal.