In the cavernous folds of slumber, where time is an unwound thread,
shadows thrived on the marrow of forgotten yesterdays.
A sunless domain cradled whispered relics—an echo of sobs,
souls fossilized within dreams' ancient catacombs.
Beneath the moon's pale gaze, I dared to tread,
through passages of the mind's crumbling architecture.
The tiles of memory, once polished and vibrant,
now lay cracked, bearing inscriptions of obsolete fears.
"We were," they murmured, "when the world was young—
ancient as the stars that no longer remember our names."
I followed the whispers to a door entwined with the roots of oblivion,
its handle cool and trembling from the touch of waking dreams.