The quiet refrain of time repeats,
echoing in corridors of past and future,
merged, a tapestry of shadows.
Shimmering fables upon that edge,
whisper unto the envisioning gales—
the murmurs know not when to cease.
They weave through dreams half-remembered,
cyclists along a bulging narrative,
ride the waves of tall grass ghost fields.
A voice without an echo,
stretches into the void—beware yet welcome,
dance amidst the fading light, for it illuminates the path.
Serpent-like verses twine around ancient trees,
bark speaking in silence, witnessed truths pass unseen,
the fading silhouettes of twilight dreams welcome sleep.