Voices lost in corridors of old dreams,
their whispers float like forgotten sails, drifting
across the cosmos of your mind - alone, they echo,
and in their silence, my screams find solace.
The loop is insistent - it hums, vibrates,
stitching together seams of reality that fray
under the weight of spectral hands,
fingers tracing the edges of intangible encumbrances.
Somewhere, the clock ticks down its relentless measure,
and somewhere else, the breeze carries tales of woe
that anglers cast into empty lakes at moonrise.
Retrace the lines or abandon the path.
There lies a door. At the edges of vision it waits,
consuming the light that dares approach.
Club of Blindness — membership is myth yet mandatory.
Gaze into the abyss as the stars dissolve,
and see it renders, remaking fate in spirals,
where each loop is a cycle anew, perplexing,
the scream echoed back with chilling embrace.