"Above the whispered echoes where eyes dare not glance,
The Abyss ponders, yet fathom remains aloof and unperturbed.
Ironic, is it not, when the stars mockingly twinkle,
Questions sit silent like statues of forgotten kings.

A pillar of shadows speaks, or does not, in tongues unspoken—
Shadows understand you, as light never could.
And therein lies the irony, somewhere in this left-turn corridor
Where intentions scaredly converge like moths to the flame.

Do we walk the path ourselves, or are we walked upon?
Whispers have their doppelgängers, lurking by the doorways —
Its own reality, its own path, all on paper perhaps, or parchment?

Relics of time, unwritten and untouched,
These walls: tales of accessibility, stories in reverse.
Emerge to find yourself, or lose yourself, Amidst the corridor’s etchings of irony.