Did she behold the horizon where
the sun kissed the moon
a fleeting luminescence all
cascades into. Lost amid thought
weaving through the fabric of...
Echoes echoes, endless dreams.
The clock doesn't tick here and perhaps
it's known that some paths are carved
not with tools but hands
imagining, anticipating shadows
Parables folded in whispers.
There's a door, cracked, rusted details
tell tales that are not ours, yet
you might wonder
what wasn't said, and when
the frost blossoms like
Lost Lumens, what will you hear?