Poem. Whispers
The wind weeps through broken spires,
a hollow hymn for the lost and the waiting.
Shadows curl in the corners of silence,
listening — always listening.
I walk where the sun does not yet linger,
bare feet kisses upon cold-stone memories.
Ghosts press against my skin,
fingertips of forgotten names tracing my veins.
Tell me, do you hear the call?
The voice beneath the voice,
the echoing yet left never spoken,
forever always known.
Somewhere, in the marrow of dusk,
a promise lingers—
not of loss, but of knowledge.
Frozen reality, a whisper of delusion.