In the quaint town of Nevermore, where silence speaks louder than words,
the once-vibrant voices have dimmed to a mere echo.
Lullabies drift through the air like autumn leaves,
rustling the fabric of time with a gentle irony.
"It's almost bedtime," the sun whispers mockingly,
as it relinquishes its hold, casting shadows where dreams and nightmares intertwine.
Who knew absence could be so vocal,
a symphony of sighs in the silence of the unspoken?
The owls, wise and whimsical, hoot the reviews of a life inscribed in starlight notes,
and us, mere spectators to a cosmic play,
shrug at the futilities masquerading as fads.
A friend once told me the moon laughs
at those who dare to ask it questions in their sleep.