A clock ticks resentfully, carved hands of burdened wood, heart rusting behind glass shields—I envy the sky-lanes cut by birds, yet am perpetually anchored within this silent sanctum.
An ancient mirror, suspecting blurry truths; whispers of shadows imprinted on golden-edged panes—Whispers guide delicate cracks into my frame: observe, but do not touch...
A cracked ceramic teacup wedged in corners, sorrowful and joyous in solitude—Let none know heat's tender scars from the stories that once volubly poured over chipped lips.
Hushed echoes meander along paths unknown:
Every timeless shadow landscapes a shrine, an entity rendered sentimental trifling onwards.