Echoes

In the heart of bright lanterns, a shadow stirs,  

where laughter rings but echoes blur.  

The warmth of flame feels soft, yet thin,  

like borrowed light, not sparked within.  

Beneath the shimmer, a quiet ache,  

a wish for voices that daylight takes.  

The world is gold, yet still I roam—  

a stranger here, though wrapped in home.  

I drift through night like silken thread,  

woven bright but loosely spread.  

Each spark that blooms, each ember’s flight,  

a distant star in borrowed light.  

And so, I raise a silent glass,  

to kindred souls the miles surpass.  

To voices lost in wind and flame,  

that call me softly by my name.