"Was it the color of time or the scent of skies,
whispering through the corridors of neverwhere?"
Listen, beneath the lull of forgotten stars,
hear how the echoes unravel the stitches of soliloquy.
"Perhaps the footsteps believe they've seen heat,
burning the edges of a theoretical reality, or so we assumed."
In the labyrinth of sleep, night speaks in riddles,
a twilight sonnet sung by the unburdened heart.
"Tell me your name in languages unfamiliar,
for the moon collects tales in quivering silence."