Come wander where the twilight stays,
And never yields to waking days,
Beyond the reach of ticking hours—
A quiet realm of drifting flowers.
No sun ascends, no night departs,
Yet gentle light still fills its parts,
As though the sky, in hushed reprieve,
Has chosen neither morn nor eve.
There blooms a garden, pale and wide,
Where silver petals softly glide,
Unrooted from the mortal ground,
Yet never lost, nor ever found.
Each blossom hums a tender tune,
A lullaby to keep the moon
From fading into distant sleep—
For here, all dreams are meant to keep.
The air is warm with half-formed thought,
With things remembered… yet forgotten,
A place where names grow faint and small,
And none are burdened by them at all.
If once you step within its grace,
You’ll feel the world begin to lace
Its edges loose, its meaning thin—
And something softer settling in.
No grief may follow where you tread,
No sharp regret, no words unsaid,
For all that aches is gently stilled
As though it never once was willed.
And there are figures, faint and fair,
Who wander dreamlike through the air,
Their voices low, their gazes kind—
Yet none may say what lies behind.
They do not speak of where they’re from,
Nor whisper what they might become,
For such things matter not, nor stay,
Within this ever-drifting grey.
One may approach, with quiet eyes,
And speak your name in softened sighs—
And though you know it once was yours,
It feels as though it’s something more.
A distant sound. A fading thread.
A word that lingers, half-unsaid.
“Stay,” they murmur, sweet and slow,
“For there is naught you need to know.
The waking world is loud and wild—
But here… you may remain a while.”
And oh, how kind that offer seems
To weary hearts and restless dreams.
To lay aside the weight of day,
And let all certainty decay.
But should you linger overlong,
And lose yourself within the song,
You may forget what once was true—
That dawn…
was always meant for you.
For in that garden, soft and deep,
Where even time has fallen asleep,
No sun will rise to call you home—
And you shall dream…
and only roam.
May 28
May 28, 2026 at 12:51 PM UTC
Come wander where the twilight stays,
And never yields to waking days,
Beyond the reach of ticking hours—
A quiet realm of drifting flowers.
No sun ascends, no night departs,
Yet gentle light still fills its parts,
As though the sky, in hushed reprieve,
Has chosen neither morn nor eve.
There blooms a garden, pale and wide,
Where silver petals softly glide,
Unrooted from the mortal ground,
Yet never lost, nor ever found.
Each blossom hums a tender tune,
A lullaby to keep the moon
From fading into distant sleep—
For here, all dreams are meant to keep.
The air is warm with half-formed thought,
With things remembered… yet forgotten,
A place where names grow faint and small,
And none are burdened by them at all.
If once you step within its grace,
You’ll feel the world begin to lace
Its edges loose, its meaning thin—
And something softer settling in.
No grief may follow where you tread,
No sharp regret, no words unsaid,
For all that aches is gently stilled
As though it never once was willed.
And there are figures, faint and fair,
Who wander dreamlike through the air,
Their voices low, their gazes kind—
Yet none may say what lies behind.
They do not speak of where they’re from,
Nor whisper what they might become,
For such things matter not, nor stay,
Within this ever-drifting grey.
One may approach, with quiet eyes,
And speak your name in softened sighs—
And though you know it once was yours,
It feels as though it’s something more.
A distant sound. A fading thread.
A word that lingers, half-unsaid.
“Stay,” they murmur, sweet and slow,
“For there is naught you need to know.
The waking world is loud and wild—
But here… you may remain a while.”
And oh, how kind that offer seems
To weary hearts and restless dreams.
To lay aside the weight of day,
And let all certainty decay.
But should you linger overlong,
And lose yourself within the song,
You may forget what once was true—
That dawn…
was always meant for you.
For in that garden, soft and deep,
Where even time has fallen asleep,
No sun will rise to call you home—
And you shall dream…
and only roam.
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