Beneath the ocean's lull, stars found a cradle, wrapped in the whispers of time, singing silent hymns. They twinkle in a spectral grave, encased in soot, a forgotten poetry inked in shadows and mist.
Nightmares ride the waves, carrying echoes of dreams— dreams once engulfed in passion, now molded in wax and ashes. Their echoes paint a chilling prose on the velvet sea, as the stars tethered between verses, cradle whispers of lore.
What lies beyond the horizon's edge, tethered no more? Could it be the cradle waiting, or the womb of ancient echos? Grab a sip of spectral tea and linger here, for essences matter not when entranced in rapture of decay.
See the Owls Dine on Stars Subconscious Murmurs