In the cavernous folds of the wandering core, where shadows cling to whispers, there lies a doorkeeper forgotten by time. Its teeth, jagged shards of night, scatter light as it creaks open the past.
Reflects not the face but the soul's crimson ordeal. For the mirror speaks not, yet knows phantom wanderings and the thresholds crossed in silence.
Herein, an ancient howl—a cascade of dirges echoing from sepulchers beneath, a riddle trapped within itself...
Rings once, then twice, a soundless toll across forsaken hallways—each chime carries a story woven in despair.
The pages tremble under the weight of spun tales, disjointed like the fallen leaves of a withered year. Grimoire pages bleeding ink at the edges where the poet's lament intertwines with madness.
Flickers in the dusk of memory; its warmth, a ghostly touch—a silent keeper of forgotten vows whispered in the gloom.
And so it spins—the gyre of lost echoes, of hushed relics seeking solace in the arms of the abyss.