In the damp cradle of midnight, certainty breathes
its echoes caught in the amber of forgotten dreams.
Shadows tread softly on the edges of the known,
weaving tales from ancient bones and worn-out sighs.
What once was instinct now a script,\br>
carved upon the silica of time—
every certainty a shadow’s jest,
every truth a fossilized jest.
Whispered truths in cypress groves,
Cloaks of obscurity on sunken shores,
dance, oh dance, beneath the lunar gaze,
where litanies of starlighted shadows persist.