once the clock tower struck
a chord somewhere—
ripples
in the fabric
of a quiet afternoon,
unsettling the
dust particles
caught in their glimmer.
Lost whispers hazed in liquid memories
reverberate, suspend the
reality fabricator on a
bust of ancient ideals,
masks
falling like sheer
autumn veils.

Echo of a sound; too faint
to touch, tangible
only in the echo of
an echo never born.
A wave
returns ceaseless, crushing
under the weight
of silence.

Golden fields whisper secrets that
never knew a voice,
caught in the crescendo of
invisibility—a transient wind
dances through
leaves,
crafting a melody
of forgotten truths.
[the last name unspoken]

Whisper not, but listen to the lull
of introspective echoes; they breathe
the essence of temporal
miracles as they
fade into the
fabric of stars.

Follow the path not taken,
a shadow
inked into memory's embrace,
a brow of whispers
tracing circles
in transience, where
echoes fade &
become lost again.

Contemplation overlaps
fragmented realities,
drifting
like afternoon smoke
across a mournful but gentle
horizon.

Future Paths: Unwritten roads evaporate, letters scrawl themselves upon
the temporal canvas—vision cascades upon
the eventual dissolution of
now.