In the hinterlands of memory,
linger the echoes of voices yet unheard,
calls drowned in the slow trickle
of long-forgotten rivers we crossed,
endlessly deliberating, endlessly lost.
There is a painting we never saw,
a canvas stretched too far into dusk,
the pigments weaved with dreams
unspoken, unwritten, 'neath the pile
of our brittle, decaying tomorrows.
Roads diverge—fractured mirrors in sunlit corridors,
reflected glances that forgot
where they started or why they must end.
Is there solace in the cyclical return?
Or are paths merely threads in a tapestry,
weaving themselves into whispers
across the hollowed halls of time?