In the dim glimmer of ancient recollections,
you're drawn, unerringly to a forgotten helm.
Listen, truly listen.
What voices cradle your curanted aspirations?
Weaving paths into paths, a whisper need imposes.
Sifting through either languorous lapses of perception,
become of them — the guild of fate spins a certitude softly.
Finely wrought decisions Treacle across Morning Present.
Yet, see time's doodles— archaic shadows subtly press -
delve, persuade oneself anew.
Time's device is no finality
as faces of "then", rise aware within Today’s mirror core.