Behind, the quiet rooms where thoughts collect. Exclude the noise that doesn't serve the mind. Consider how silence reshapes what remains. Stars lean closer to forgotten names. Time folds gently into paper skies. Memory bends softly where light begins. Silence returns, not empty, but listening.
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Moonlight drips across the sleeping floor,
where shadows soften every hard edged thought.
The night unknots what daylight tied too tight,
and breath becomes a slower kind of knowing.
Windows hold the shape of distant things,
half memory, half imagination’s glow.
Even time forgets its urgency for a while,
and lets the quiet do its quiet work.
