A backwards glance into infinity,
where remnants of memory fill the pages;
Of nightly whistling from trains at the station,
worn and tired yet oddly engaging.

Time seems to move on so slowly,
rearranged but distinct and intense;
We turn over in our bedtime ritual,
as each witching hour eerily descends.

Long ago we could hear in a whisper,
that fearless wraiths send us nightly stories;
And dawn brings us sleepless sunshine,
casting its beams searching for eternity.

Somewhere in the night we closed our eyes,
while spirits provoked by myths and legends;
Were sainted souls projecting cosmic signs,
which swirled 'round about toward the heavens.

Ethereal notions then crossed into darkness,
where nothing can be easily explained;
But in the night our whispers still linger,
along with the screeching of infinity's trains.