The Glass Horizon

A house rests, cradled in a fragile sphere,
its timbers soft with whispers of time.
The world beyond shimmers, untouched—
dew-lit mornings, a horizon kissed by dawn.
But within, the light falters,
a memory too fragile to hold.

This is a sanctuary of suspended breath,
where grass grows in unbroken stillness,
and bubbles rise like untethered dreams,
floating toward a sky that never arrives.
The sun presses close,
its golden touch a fleeting promise,
a warmth it cannot keep.

Beyond the glass, shadows linger,
an echo of something forgotten,
or perhaps waiting.
Another house looms in the haze,
its form blurred by the distance of time.
Is it a fragment of the past,
or a tether to what comes next?

The sphere holds its fragile dominion,
a world of stillness,
where nothing fades,
yet nothing moves.
But glass is a restless guardian,
its edges trembling,
its silence humming of endings unseen.

What is this place but a dream encased—
a moment stretched thin,
balanced on the knife’s edge of memory?
It shines, it trembles,
on the verge of breaking.