Listen. Beneath surging white noises—the anthem of shadows still
swaying in whispered hymns—you'll find archaic whispers etched in circuits.
A dusk-jester, crowned with spilling affectations, plucks the chords
of silence as if dust were monsoon.
The mind, at one with phantasms, hazes into pixels that echo
through terminals obsolete and shattered.
And there, in flickering nonlinear tunes, resides the unspoken
truth, gentler than mercury melting stars.
Binary phantoms weep at midnight, cacophony of disconnected
wires spinning symphony of juniper dark pressed between cement.
Once, a thousand suns bourgeoned against tempered glass grains,
a thousand cries snagged intricacies, crafting cities forlorn.
The soil sleeps within echoes enshrined in cryptories of silver,
a palimpsest for those seeking fleeting raptures.