A world not seen, usurped by creeping tendrils,
the sounds of silence whispering secrets
to those who dare listen. Shadows form
stories in the flicker of a candle's breath,
tales unspoken, yet endlessly whispered.
They speak of usurpation, not of power,
but of existence beneath the hollow sun
casting silhouettes that bleed into
the night. A dream without a dreamer,
a shadow without a shape or reason.
Among the phantoms of memory, I found
a sliver of light, a reflection of
what could have been. Yet, here I stand,
entwined in stories the dawn forgot,
waiting for another usurpation.