Through the meandering paths of the mind's eye, a voice resounds,
The old clock ticks backward where time once danced.
Glistening cobwebs weave dreams, caught in the moonlight's embrace,
Is it madness or truth that sets this woven maze in place?
The lunatic stands tall, poised upon the precipice,
Of reason's edge—balancing, wavering, whispering bliss.
Songs of forgotten realms slip through fingers like sands,
Each grain a universe, spiraling, lost in unfathomable hands.
Voices of the turned leaves, murmurs of the breathless trees,
Hear their secrets spoken soft, upon the murmuring breeze.
Beneath the labyrinth's skin, where no light dares to tread,
A symphony of silences threads through the words unsaid.