The potential stands idle in amber.
The possibility conceals the palimpsest.
A lost trail whispers from amongst the leaves.
A faded dream lines the heavens with tears.
All that we had was a prelude to silence.
Time pays lovingly the slave, not the overseer.
Uncharted destiny is a panacea for patients.
Liberation converses eruditely with feyness.
All that we have is a footnote to a symphony.