Beneath the roots of the willow tree, where shadows dance and spirits flee,the teapot laid in silent rest, Its spout still warm, its heart possessed. Inside, the dregs of time congealed—a whisper from the unrevealed, black leaves like ink...

With each drop of ink fall, fading to indigo, twilight's measured rhythm unfurling.On the night into a world of its own, feeling each drop of oxygen.Soft as the blooming fog, a secret, with the dying light, memoirs of the...

Listening to the fiddler deep down, a soliloquy of ashes in the twilight,speaking in tongues of the damned, dead languages of souls departed.The fiddler had no fingers, just bone—yellowed and polished smooth, clicking, against the strings with every note,...