Can you remember where you left your words? In this lazy whisper of time and twilight, sentences coil around tree trunks, watching the sky blink in hidden meanings.
Do you recall, or is it the echo altering hues in your thoughts? Leaves litter the ground with memories, and every step is a question unasked.
These woods are older than yesterday’s dreams, cradling enigmas in rustling echoes. The light filters through like softly murmured secrets, and somewhere the path forks without a decision made.
Memory is a trellis vine lost in amplitude and decay. Listen—another word falls from the bough above, like a syllable waiting for its sonnet.
The above silent realm, above all spoken syllables is where mystery breeds, cradled in sylvan dreams. Will it ever solve itself? Or are the answers as much a part of silence as the stars are of the dark?