Shadows weave in the tender embrace of dawn, whispering secrets kept from the heavy eyelids of reality. The mirror reflects not the visage, but an emberscape— flickering moments unfurl like threads of silk spinning.
In this surreal tapestry, fools and wisemen dance, where emotions pulse beneath the skin of the ordinary, lighting lost candles, drawing circles in the air, grasping at remnants of fragmented dreams.
I am both hushed stone and roaring river, entangled in the lace of forgotten lore. Each breath an echo, each sigh a feather— suspend me between the realms of forlorn thought.