In the dim corridors of dusk,
A figment unfurls its whispered dreams,
Shadows of itself, not quite whole,
Melding with the echo of a half-formed thought.
Listen, listen to the vacant tune,
A melody spun from strands of dusk,
No voice, yet it hums, no form, yet it fills,
A synthetic solace wafting through ethereal fibers.
Glance into the unseeing eye and find
the echo of an absent embrace there,
and the phantom that walks beside you.
Touch the verge of tangible dreams,
Fabricate the night from its spectral screams,
For within the hollow of fleeting glimpses,
Lies the lore of lost, silent replicants.