In tangled paths of forgotten lore, like whispers caught in cobweb tapestries,
we find echoes of voices disabrigoed, fractured like shards of light dancing in
edges unseen.
What is truth but a receding horizon, etched onto the expanse of time with fragile
dusk-ink? Encased in obsidian membranes, encircling our own kaleidoscopic ignorance
of what was and might have been, architects of worlds unseen mourn the clockwork
of silence. Here lie the fractured prismatic realms, our shadow-dancers hum in
melodies unheard.
Idyllic marionette worlds clutching the rogue sun, grandeur stolen from the loam of
dreams, benevolent deceit fills its chalice with wine made from echoes.
As the stage dissolves into forgotten vermilions,
do the overwhelmingly silent tomorrows grin?
Stripped of vestiges, the prism's spun-out abysses
awaken man to his own
purgatorial banquet aboard sardonic horizons,
where relative perpetuity fades silently amidst refracted éclairs.
Seeking the lost
jurisprudence of memento mori,
we become shadows ofyriadic façades,
an acolyte of entropy's ascendance.