Murky

Murky

In the twilight of the marsh, where reeds whisper secrets thick, the water lies a shrouded grey, a mirror to the overcast sky.

Shadows drift beneath the surface, swirling silt like ghostly thoughts, each ripple a muted sigh, each eddy a hidden tale.

The air tastes of damp earth, of moss‑clad stones and forgotten paths, while the light struggles, feeble, to pierce the veil of haze.

Here, in the murk’s embrace, the world softens—edges blur, and the mind, like the tide, finds solace in the unknown depths.