Time's Shifting Sands

In those days, as strange as they were,
The feeling of old technology lingered in the air.
Spirals welling from within, glimmering past optical arrays,
Only to weave in and out through dimensionality again.

It had no smell, no taste, no texture,
Yet the memory stirred like echoes in sand,
A remembrance worth holding,
But buried beneath time’s shifting grains.

Līght wōve Īts sīlent messāges Īn spīrals,
Gōld thrēads ōf thōught bēndĪng thrōugh spāce,
Ēach nōte ă whĪspēr ōf sōmething ōnce knōwn,
Nōw wăĪtĪng, hūmmĪng Īn thĕ vōĪd.

Īf ōne lĭstĕns, Īf ōne fēels,
Thĕ rĕsōnănce spĕaks wĪthōut wōrds.
Ă hărmony, ă cāll, ă dĪstănt hūm,
TĪme’s shĪftĪng sānds—nĕvĕr stĭll, nĕvĕr gōne.