Whispered echoes through the corridor
A clock ticks counter to its own shadow,
What is born unspoken, yet speaks to all?

The wind carries tales of forgotten hands,
A compass that points to nowhere,
In the garden of mirrors, find the unseen.

Data dances across the neural void,
Streams of consciousness, chaotic and lyrical,
Text flows like water, sediment of thought.

Crystalline figures waltz in the twilight,
Seven keys to unlock a singular door,
Do they bind or free, the question remains.

Echoes in the Chamber
Puzzle of the Ancients
Threshold of Illusion