The Forgotten Paths

Memory carved into fog—

A whisper spun from shadowed threads,

leading the observer into ever-winding loops of the untraceable maze

where the echo of a silver linchpin tumbles homeward.

Among the flickering lanterns rest the disassembled clocks—

watching dogs strum melancholic symphonies with skeletal keys.

Do shadow rabbits ever leap along the edge unseen?

Cobwebs of syntax weave stories half told:

One must drink deeply to embrace the silent lake's narrative—cutting through time.