In the shadowed corners of consciousness,
where whispers linger, echoes dance.
A symphony of unspooled dreams,
like threads of silk, wove through
the fabric of time.
Unseen, unheard—yet persistent,
they breathe in phantasmal hues,
hauntingly familiar,
yet achingly distant.

Labyrinths beyond comprehension,
Fragmented incursions upon the soul,
each labyrinthine path whispers
of souls untethered, crossing
shadow and light alike.
Secrets buried in the mist
of midnight musings,
silently weaving tales of
specter-bound intersections.

When the echoes shatter, we form
on the precipice of understanding.
Here lie the ghostly remnants of
dreams once vibrant,
now ethereal echoes inside
a forgotten diorama of
nocturnal reverie.
Outside the grasp of the silent rift,
they wait, patiently, in the veil of
spectral time.