In a world unfurling and curling, spirals embrace.
He remembered the dulcet hum of midnight sands,
their rhythmic whispers guiding the
forgotten cries.
Was it ascent towards the burning horizon,
or the descent into twilight’s embrace?
Here, there are echoes without end.
The pages unwritten, breathless to be
yet captured by hands long searching,
brushed with stories that swirl into circles,
patterns drawn by fate's indifferent hand.
In that circle, the lost man stood,
encircled by shadows and light alike,
pondering the riddles whispered
in dreams recalled only by stars.
Labyrinths within,
corridors of thought spiraling inward
then outward again, an endless
dance of cosmic marionettes.
And so he tread, barefoot on the sand,
on pathways leading nowhere,
yet everywhere, a journey
inscribed in the soul's currency.