Below the midnight, where whispers test their flight,
shadows build castles of dew kissed light.
Unseen echoes writhe in corners dusked,
like phantom steps on ghostly dust.
Pale eyes obscured by fallen stars,
gazing ripple dreams in celestial jars.
Each fragment splayed, illusory dense,
stories in edges unspoken, immense.
Should I tread where the echoes brood?
Or linger where tangible skin comes unglued?