Amidst the arching depths of the night, whispers converge
Are we but shadows of thoughts lost under the velvet embrace?
Stars breathe deeply the stories of old torn fragments,
spun tales of ephemeral souls lost in the expanse.
Beyond the horizon, the ground denies itself under feet,
Yet, a gaze upward weds gravity's claimed chains.

Ephemeral thoughts, seeded in silver-lined dawns,
implanting resonances in dusky silhouettes—
The butterfly struggles; is it with the wind?
or dances, harmonious with winds of becoming?
With pencil-stained fingers tracing dark highways, I ask:
What becomes of echo when only silence is near?