In the dimming corridors of our twilit soul,
lean echoes weave unspoken tales,
speaking of masks worn, truths hidden.
The candelight flickers, shadows dance—a mournful waltz—over pages strewn with ink as dark as void,
capturing whispers of fractured realms,
those tales silence dared not tell.
Embrace the path paved with ashes and stars,
where spectres of what could have been
wander in eternal twilight,
holding memories of paths not taken,
silenced songs of forgotten lives beneath our weary brows.
A raven perched upon ivory dreams,
its eyes a mirror to our shattered tales,
guides us through a realm where nothing is as it seems,
where mirrors reflect not what is,
but what might have become had we dared.
By the restless spirits of the labyrinthine pen
and echoes of a time beyond the silence.