In the half-light of the sun's retreat,
memories flicker — shadows of a past
unvisited yet strangely known. An argument
sparked by words forgotten before birth.

Wandering through corridors of whispers,
the distant roar of a mutiny realized,
but never declared. Only the gravel pathways
remember their rebellion against feet.

Is it this familiar wound, this echo from within,
that leads us to revolt against repetition?
A circle drawn again, but not perfect.
It must deform eventually.

The mirror holds secrets behind fog,
yet truth retreats further within,
searching the hull of weekend dreams
for laughter's mutinous escape.