Whispers from the Deep

In the cavern of your mind, echoes resound. The ocean promises silence but whispers secrets, secreting them through creases of forgotten grudges. Has it been centuries since sails touched the moonlight? Perhaps longer. Each wave casts shadows that curl like the fingers of specters, grasping memories that feel more like dreams.

I stood at the edge, my toes curling over barnacles, waiting for a siren's call. But it wasn't the songs that ensnared; it was the void, deep and pulsating like a heart well-worn. Below the shivering surface, something moved —a shimmer of scales or time itself in tumult.

Did I weave through realities or drown among horizons no man should sail? The question recurs, as it will, with the clarion notes of forgotten frequencies. Beaded droplets roll down the tapestry of my being, which once was a clear canvas now marred with depictions of stars under a watery sky. They beckon to stories half-told.

Have you pondered the realm beneath reefs? Do you not sense the eyes upon tide-wrought stories, watching, waiting for the unraveling of truth from tumultuous wreckage? Listen closely.

The whispers never truly leave us.