Upon the winds, a melody drapes—dark as the shroud of oblivion, yet adorned with an accidental glee. The breeze sings with a voice woven of echoes and shadows, a symphony conducted by the ghastly hands of fate.
The phantom limb stretches along the trail of frost-kissed air, searching for the touch once remembered, now forgotten by daylight’s cuts. It sketches tales in the sky, whispers of things that could perhaps made a jester smile, drifting amidst the sinister songs of languor.
The touch of dew upon dry leaves like moonlight repression; the memory, brief, haunts the fleeting flesh of wind. Here lie notes abandoned, messages from volatile confines, seeking listening souls.