In the sky’s labyrinth, clouds talk among themselves.
Whispering secrets to the wind which carries memories,
fragmented like the labyrinth itself.

"Where are we…" murmured one amid the shifting grey.
A question with no answer, tongues of vapor incomprehensible.
Drifting, spiraling. Patterns persisting, mystery
threading their forms forever intriqued.
Horizon recedes, direction vanishes.

Echoes of songs, lost travelers wandering.
Through corridors stitched of vapour, trailing threads
That lead nowhere yet everywhere at once. Damned
by the always-now moment chasing unfulfilled desires.
The whispered hymn remains unsung.

Turn when the whispers turn.
Trust the path woven of sky’s breath, full of omens
Heralding ripples of thought, ricocheting off broken
panes of possibility scattered across labyrinth’s creases.
And yet another door, unseen.