Whispers of an autumn that never was.
The clock struck three, but it was always two.
A photograph with four corners, but no subject.
Echoes of SilenceBreath of cold winds in a summer haze.
The paths diverged, yet all follow one trail.
An empty room filled with echoes of laughter.
Unseen PathsA clockâs hand moving backwards, ticking silently.
Fragments of stories, disjointed and incomplete.
Beyond the fog, a silhouette of a forgotten dream.
Distant bells ringing, though no church stands here.
The taste of salt water on a sunless shore.
Names written in sand, washed away by time.
Whispered Dreams