Descriptions in a tongue we've long forgotten:**
There are lexicons trapped between the fall of night and the rise of first light,
lingering like shadows, echoes of limbs not known in their corporeal extent,
twisting around neurons left to whisper without limbs to express in motion.
The tongue of ghosts speaks more. They open phrases like blooms in the dark,
petals of syntax unconstructed, growing in the silence here, yet yielding
meaning somewhere within the bones of existence—
breathless articulations.
An embroidery of touch recalls, detailing the specter with a text unnamed,
the blurs of memory stitching a lexical net forever untouched but discerned, always.
And you speak it now. It flows, dam by dam, pebble by pebble.