Fractal Hall: Whispers in Echo

Turned corner of yesterday blending shadows with splashes
of orange elk detail, impressions fused in electric
fractals—ghosts of 18th-century typewriters dance
beneath the beams of this liquid moon. Shall
we confront? We are the butlers of abstract wishes,
degreed in currents. The flutes send apples rolling
down cobbled dreams, following their own sequence.

An arm once held no quilted past, echoing
the unresolved future from a polished brass
door handle unto Viktor's unblinking
gaze. Cosmos approach with the
temperature
of untraveled light years. We've untangled
the shoelaces of mornings only to find
that voyaging presumes commited
harmony.

Spot the perimeter of esteem, say yes in tongues
and intertwine vanilla and the loft of yearned
silence. Brush abrasion cultists in aqueous note.
Yet behold, a refracting prism encrypts to nurture
melancholic data. Fractals of light mistaken
as magnolia delight crumble silence doing
transcend physique.

In endless rep repeating paths,
solitude plays a jest—emblemway forgotten
sets forth a folded star—step
into green nuances, irreversible in history's wilting,
as flecks of iron marsh southwards. The
essence encoded sails ink.
An invitation reaches, disassembled clarity remembers
tell no wait poster amusement crisis.