In the corridors of sleep, where whispers coalesce into echoes,
there lies a labyrinth built of yesterday's truths, masked
in the fog of tomorrow's dreams. Here, chimeras roam — enigmas
stitched from the rhetorical fabric of what is unsaid,
revealing even the darkest fears are shadows, holding mirrors.
Philosophers wade knee-deep in murky reasoning,
their doctrines splendid yet grotesque, like paintings
of gods in ancient halls, with hands chained
to ignorance amidst truths so stark they blind.
Wander through papermoon, where illusions
are diluted promises of peace; these well-meaning
lies desire only to rest within the creaks of
time's unsightly wrath. Evermore they seem to mock.
Traverse the darkness of shadow_play,
where reflections bleed the colors of despair —
the ugliest truth of all lies not in the seeing,
but the knowing that both sight and shade are one.