The stars are cries wrapped in twilight's grace,
yearning whispers insulated in a winter's fog.
In amidst the shimmering distortions of sorrow-laden glass, we see not what is, but what might resonate in the cathedral of ages past.
Through the funhouse glass, we glimpse those skyward dreams: nebulous, ethereal, adorned with shades of an ever-elusive love.
The moon extends its hand on petrichor nights, without whispers, promising zeal unkind.
For beneath the crescent bow lies not a lost pearl, but our untold sonnet in shadows deep.
Collect the faded echoes of tomorrow stitched into today.
Let us ascend beyond curtains that flare in the moonlight.