Somewhere between the lines of the echo, the song finds its breath,
echoing beneath the ink that dances on the edge of consciousness.
The moon lit a path, silver whispers woven in the clandestine
embrace of ink drips on forgotten pages.
Inkling - A mere suggestion, a syllable wrapped in silence.
The paper veils shimmer with secrets untold, their shadows
weep songs of the unwritten lore.
Unspoken Murmurs - Where voices cradle the unborn verses.
Glimpses of dreams scribed in the margins, visions flicker
like will-o'-the-wisps in the vast dusk of the self.
Imprints - Echo chambers that cradle the whispers of yesteryears.