In the absence of light,
void kneels next to time, a specter unseen,
conversing without volume,
dancing invisible in their own formless rhythm.
Invisible paths stretch to nowhere, exert force upon fate—
they linger in echoes of remaining footsteps
guided by echoes not yet heard,
propelling shadows into the oblivion collective.
Past becomes a threadless fabric unraveling—
woven by the weaver whose hands fade to touch,
feeling in dimensions known only by stars.
Do handprints define existence if the sand never felt them?