In the heart of a storm, whispers cling to the edges of thought, Cast adrift in the sea of yesterday's echoes, Silent, yet deafening in their absence.
Is there a song sung beneath the surface, Lamenting the dreams that slip through fingers like sand, Fading into twilight's embrace, lost but not forgotten?
Through fog and haze, a figure stands, Unseen, yet felt, a shadow among shadows, Whispering tales of paths not taken, Roads winding through the forest of memory.
And so we wander, in search of the echoes, the unseen whispers that etch themselves upon the soul’s canvas, each step a brushstroke in the gallery of what once was.