In shadows spun from yesterday's breath,
A symphony of echoes lingers, unheard,
Vibrations of a phantom limb,
Seeking solace in the untold tales of whence.
There is no place like longing,
Adrift beneath the fleeting constellations,
An eternal dance on a crescent moon,
Where the path meets the serenade of silence.
Each step inscribed in the parchment of stars,
A sonnet scripted in the language of dust,
Of vagrants and specters, sharing a seat,
On the twilight train to nowhere in particular.
Listen closely, the echoes persist,
Notes of a symphony, fractured, whole,
The taste of wandering, bittersweet,
A melody in the key of absence.