I am but a whisper fallen,
A trembling fragment staccatoing the surface,
Colors bleed in syncopation, swirling tales beneath everyone’s feet,
Each drop a thread in the tapestry of this muted spectacle.
Wind dances its soft menagerie above, seen but never felt,
I drift, abandon my earthbound whispers, through veins of constructs—
Echoing within the concrete caverns, reflecting the shimmering gaze of indifference.
Listening for the awakening chime of longing,
I gather the soft electric murmurs of dreams, even in the gloom;
And oh, how swiftly I am pulled, serving each current’s anxious caprice.
Three rivers converged—where memories blossom thick like algae,
Where submarine spectra slumber and flourish; deft artifacts of signposting nostalgia,
gentler than twilight skies falling asleep.