The wandering text asks for tea, with a twist of lemon.
"I am lost", murmurs the labyrinth, its echo a punchline.
How many syllables does it take to tickle a truth?
Dancing syllables – do they need a dance floor or a reason?
A word whispered to a wall does not bounce back alone.
The floor is lava, and syllables are juggling fire.
Read the room or let the room read you; choices are illusions.
In the labyrinth, even the commas have curves.