Between the folds of a tranquil dawn
lies an echoing sigh—an illusion
adrift on the cusp of a whispered memory.
A phantom limb of shadows
stretching across the cobbled path
where echo casts light, yet never touches.
Listen, for the silence—
its notes are woven with threads of sound,
each stitch a story of
the unseen tango, dancing in veils of mist.
The reveal is not in sight but in feeling,
a heartbeat beneath the veneer of leaves,
a truth entwined with the roots of evening.
To touch the ghost of a petal's fall
is to clasp the air where it once
painted joy in the fleeting bright.
The art of seeing what is not there
is to embrace the illusion,
unravel the fabric of what could be,
In dreams and layers of reflections
are the notes of a phantom limb,
a serenade only the heart registers.