When silence croons its lullaby, the echoes manifest shadows of whispers, frolicking upon the precipice of an unknown rapture. Like distant stars, suspended in caramel nights, flicker and weave through time's tender grasp. A truth, forgotten and wrapped in whispers of autumn dew, awaits beneath the veil, languorous and borrowed from the ancients.
Silenced by the abyss, I see not the boundaries of this world, but canvases sprawling into the profound. All is amber within the alcove of memories that cradles celestial songbirds lost in their twilight quest. Grace is masked here, where time wanders in whispers. But grace is also the song sung by shadows across the moor, a waltz of fate and longing.
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