A whisper echoes the end of day,
Where winds carry tales of a forgotten realm.

To fly is to dance through time's fissures,
Through portals unseen to the watching eye.

Do the gossamer threads weave truth, or merely illusion?

In the kaleidoscope of Sundown's embrace,
The Journey begins anew each dusk,
Paintings on a broken screen flicker,
With the pulse of dreams not yet dreamt.