In the midnight chorus, they whispered:
"Follow the tangled trails of the silver thread."
—Now, the Nebula's breath cools the stardust's warmth,
and Orion's song echoes through empty corridors.
The celestial cartographer weeps for forgotten paths
where Cassiopeia bends her crown in quiet reverie.
Do not trace the lines; let them trace you,
spiraling through the forgotten myths,
constellations that bleed tales into the void.
Whispers and
Nebulae, entangled in diaphanous dreams,
weave across the sky's canvas,
a tapestry of stellar infinity where
each blink is a punctuation mark in the universe's own poem.
Under the ancient dome they danced;
barefoot upon the ground that no longer existed.
Echoes of supernovae sketched memories
in light years, yet somehow you remember,
the way the stars laughed, constellations rewriting
the dictionary of the cosmos beneath
your closed eyelids in a cryptic code.