The universe cried out:
Amongst the shadows, there whispered fragments of the cosmic, tongues lost on damp edges,
...and still, the bean turned, born first from the depths, a circle of elegance fainted under a stranglehold of bruised violet sky.
The past is a shrine of echoes. Signals shut tight,
Words perform their ballet—unsung poetry; lost—,
Can you hear the narratives twisted?
They scream like distant staircases leading nowhere.
“Not all beans were meant to metamorphosize,” once declared a scribbled unknown in the margins of silence.
Wretched ichor coiling around my thought-stem, so close yet infinitely scattered.
Step through the shadows where time measures divinity in forlorn grains.
The void sighs,
Ghostly visages of leering silhouettes under a luminescent orb,
“Listen closely....” a breath poured out from the forgotten machines of yesterday.
Devour the echo, glimpse into the hearkened void,
Where dreams remain carbonated, exploding in bouts of reverie.