The Dream Between the Stars

Gravity relinquishes its claim,
a moon pie crumbles in weightless voids.

What wisdom drips from autumn’s whispers?
As night swathes our frames in quilt-like shadows,

and the clock inhales with the pulse of shadows,
breaking into a dance of fleeting echoes.

A voice, unmarked,:
"Ask the brass cyclops at the horizon. Preach unto visions of dust."

_But what lies behind the silver curtain?_

Do you dare essay towards a labyrinth stitched with secret glances?
Your prism eyes catch surprise in the absence of touch.