In the corridors of whispered echoes,
where echoes of echoes become merely whispers,
a door opens—a mirror, but not really a door,
perhaps more of a suggestion,
or a misunderstanding of dimension.
Turn left, or was it right?
The jesters, oh the jesters,
tangled in the web of their own humor,
unintentional kings of a backward kingdom,
where the crown is a potato,
and the throne, a wobbly chair.
Return to the start, or begin anew.
They say in this place,
the more you chase the minotaur,
the less you find yourself,
hands fumbling through curtains of sarcasm,
laughter echoing in reverse melody.
Follow the sound of your own confusion.