In the vibrating mist of tea leaves drenched in moonbeams, a whisper glides softly, singing the lullaby of forgotten seashells. Does the poet wander towards the arc of consciousness, or remain a shadow, suspended in romantic neutralities? Swans, gliding through bouquets of dream dew, sip the scattered reflections of a long lost sun.
And so I stand – absurd yet entranced – clutching petals signed by the cosmos, hoarding glimpses of pneumatic fervor dashed with the passions of an unrecorded evening. Was it the stars who first penned the yearning, or merely the illusion spun deeper by interstellar cobwebs?
The Next Adventure: Moonlit Whispers