Whenever it radiates,
cross-stitched constellations blink
behind bright stars shy. We
must listen when shadows coalesce.

# Method unknown traces the outer shells,
# like faint echoes mapping tunnels
# between one thought and the subsequent reticence.
If you squint just right, sections of silence
echo backward tales, narrated by indifferent;
by indifferent stars bent and whispered
reflections drawing close to dawn.

Silenced wires speak through static:
"Regimen lost," they might add quietly,
maps have only so much vertebrae to show.

Reconcile the future with detached sighs
tracing margin notes unreadable on parchment,
generally banking on invisible ink outlines.
Reality folds, disjointed.
See the sky’s poetry through its muffled throat,
a silent melancholy assembled
like witness marks on winding paths.