A page between
Fragments of paint still pooling on the cold, cracked ground.
Even the silence speaks in colors once lost.
The taste of forgotten dreams hangs in the air - unshaken, with edges frayed.
Boxes filled with ticking hearts... waiting for dawn to crawl in like a sin.
How often a spectator bids farewell before the curtain falls?
Fluidity becoming brittle; repetition, a haunting echo...
Constants scrawled only once in the surface fog of morning dew.
Light bulbs speak of lost camaraderie in the background.
Continue towards the echoes or search the depths of fractured harmonies.
Are curtains listening?
Gloves filled with phantoms mountain shadows, reaching... reaching...