Across the void, where silence spins
in galaxies of thought, a whisper begins:
the ink of stars, spilled on the canvas
of nothing, writes the verses of all.
Through cosmic quills and heavenly parchment,
dreams bleed into the astral ether,
binding light and shadow in eternal prose,
a narrative veiled by oblivion's breath.
Beyond the light, realms not yet seen,
linger the unfathomable tales, ghosts
of forgotten worlds, written in celestial
script upon the spine of time itself.