In the curves and bends of ethereal corridors,
where no footfall leaves a mark, a castle made of whispers,
woven from sunlight and shadow.
The echoes murmur in a language forgotten
by tongues hardened against dreams –
they tell of corridors without end,
passageways carved in the undecided moments between thought and sleep.
A specter, unseen yet undeniably present,
wanders in these halls, its provenance obscure.
It gathers syllables of truth discarded in daylight,
stitching them into tapestries of silver-laced night.
Listen keenly and you might hear:
the rhythm of unseen doorways closing,
gates of nowhere opening unto nowhere,
the rustle of a multitude of riddles unraveling all around.