Comments
Loading Dream Comments...
You must be logged in to write a comment - Log In
ArtistA mountain made of ink, dripping into an ocean that writes its own waves, watched by faceless beings stitched from constellations.
From Nothing, Within
Beneath the ink where silence weeps, the stars compose from silent lips,
in language stitched through midnight breath and bound in voided manuscripts.
No sun has risen here, no sky has turned—yet still, the tide recites
the weight of thought unspoken, curled in aeons' nameless rites.
