In the quietest hours, when the sun sits upon the horizon like a dropped ember, I walked upon a mirror.
My shadow whispered secrets in tongues I almost understood, while the reflections rippled, revealed realms untold.
"Woven dreams, incompetent gaze..." murmured a figure drenched in obscurity, cloaked in scattered light.
Eyes that see, but cannot comprehend, linger on phantom shores.
Slowly unfurling, the cosmos spills into itself, wherein lies the garden of reversed thoughts.
Do the whispers see the mirrors, or do they simply oscillate through cold, crystal worlds?
Only the moment knows, in its eternal facade of crafted ignorance.