The skylight fractures its segments
into whispers, plaintive silhouettes whispering.
Birds sing notes straying in foreign tongues,
do they listen, are they whispered by choice?
Fleeting clouds sail, shadows of a dream before soporific dawn
Toothless smiles across misty meadows—
Here the language of fungi reigns, silent and subliminal,
are they felt, are ears made to mold ideas alone?
We grow, our breaths dens fold—a cathedral of forgotten echoes,
predestined orbits colliding in soft caress of wind-generated sighs.
Shadows reflect light’s paradox, impervious to murmuration,
do we hear—aren't the acolytes of shade held captive by desire?