In the quiet hours, silence spills over shadows,
sneaking through tangled threads of thought.
An old door that listens, waiting to echo
whispers of forgotten whims.

Clocks stagger, their tired hands trembling,
as ink seeps through paper veins,
etching voids in voxels of history
hidden beneath layers of dust.

Somewhere: patterns merge into rhythms
unseen before, carried in twilight's murmur.
Steps of ghosts revealing
textures sewn into desolate paths.

Links: unravel,
silence threads,
murmurings