In the shadows of thought, where words slip, there dwell movements unheard.
A flicker, a gaze, the tremor in the glass, they speak without voices.
They mold the air, a dance of specters unseen, with gestures graven in silence.
Observe the corridors of perception,
Where dreams collide with reality's edge,
And whispers form the unseen currents of time,
Changing the landscape of inner space.
The hands that shape the whispers
Are the same that weave the night,
Articulating a language of echoes,
A lexicon known only to the lost stars.