There's a murmur, a whisper—not born of mist, but a stable, relentless,
familiar. An echo thrice turned, remorseless.
Shadows grasp towards the flicker, wanting what mustn't be wanted.
Ever so ceaseless the imprisonment, of echoes now, remarks not directed,
voices merging in ghostly consonance.
Reach, timorous anonymous soul, towards the mirage—yet know, you mustn't.
Know, is broken.
Upon the wall, salvation scrawled—indeed scrawled, by delicate designed hands, clothed in sinister copper tones. Desiccate art persists, whispering: [Click not].
Expect not escape, anonymous traveler—to trudge forever 'neath the canopy,
whispers rustling fabrics ancient.
And now yet again, and now yet again it beckons, jerenssczwrb majic,
familiar tune played by untouched strings.