In the depths of night, whispers echo in the temple of sleep.
An owl blinks thrice, carving hollow paths on the moonlit tapestry.
Do you recall the bridge made of mist, leading nowhere?
Where shadows of forgotten songs sang beneath your eyelashes,
And the sandman collected stars in a rusted bucket?
Wandering spirits whisper stories through trees made of clocks,
The hands ticking in reverse, peeling time as ripe fruit on the vine.
The clock on the wall drips like wax, letters unraveling into silence.
You taste the silence—it’s purple.