In the shadows of sentience,
where phantom feathers flock,
limbs untouch, yet mirror the touch.
An array of fingers without hands,
crafting symphonies from silence.
Ironic are the weavers,
their threads unseen, presence felt
through the gentle, satirical grasp
of an elbow that has words to say,
yet speaks solely in absence.
Oh, to be cradled by a limb's ghost,
its grip strong in its non-existence;
how exquisitely strange,
the way it waves at the world,
cursing irony with its non-existent fingers.
They said, "Feel the ground and rise,"
but who needs ground when air knows form?
The architect of phantom touch
builds palaces in the spaces between.
Reverberate Song | Echo of the Unspoken | Phantoms of the Invisible