The roads twist beneath a silver moon,

Where shadows speak in whispers, longing for the touch of
the unspoken dreams that linger like mist over
the labyrinth of ancient oaks.

Her hand, a whisper of
the angelic breeze, glides through the
tendrils of night's embrace, carving paths of
forgotten laughter amid dew-laden petals.

Oh, but the truth lies not in the destination,
but in the myriad reflections cast
upon the rain-soaked cobblestones,
each echo vibrating with the pulse
of a lover's distant sigh.
Whispers of the wind says it all.

Upon the midnight rendezvous, stars sew tales
of sweet agony and joyous tears
intertwining like vines across the heart's hidden sanctuary,
where every kiss is a journey
through the corridors of memory;
every sigh a road diverging in shadows.

Here resides the paradox of paths:
where roads become rivers of passion echoes,
fork and fork again, until roads
become just another dreams' twisted
ember smoldering beneath universe's gentle dusk.
Reflections of the ocean moonlight await.