Alas, amidst the fleeting rivulets of thought,
There exist whirlpools cradling distant echoes,
Voices that whisper secrets of the deep,
Yet remain just out of reach in the current's sway.
The horizon stretches, curling upon itself,
With hues that breach the known spectrum,
Ever shifting, tactile yet intangible,
An aqueous canvas etched upon the mind.
Where, you may ponder, does illusion fracture?
Here, in the ethereal backdrop of twilight minds,
Or perhaps at dawn within the mist-laden meadows,
Where cognition and illusion caress mercurial clouds.