In the edges of night, shadows murmur songs of forgotten clocks,
where orange paths weave tales that whisper only to stars.

Beneath oceans of ethereal silk, the hands of the forty-four drift,
sailing boats of silence across deserted echoes of yesteryear.

Silhouettes dance in fragments only half remembered,
spiralling through corridors of unspun dreams,
each step a question without voice.

The stars speak in colors unheard, gaussian hums wrapped in
layers thick as the moon’s forgotten breath—rippling echoes.