In the folding of echoes, we see ourselves turned inside-out,
as shadows dance in chiaroscuro delight.
The mirror alters not what it reflects,
but the way we bend over its enchanted glass.
Chillings of the mystic light your way,
through corridors where whispers fade
into the amber glow of forgotten hymns.
Listen, if you dare, to their secretive chant.
The air thickens with the scent of dawnytide oil,
a perfume of stars hidden behind rainy afternoons.
Imagine, if only for a fleeting moment,
the unsung lullabies of the forested mind.
Reflections in a funhouse mirror—
distorted landscapes of the heart's desire
twisting under the pressure of old dreams;
a siren's echo in a shell too deep to hold.
Wander through the chillings... and find them,
the remnants of a self you almost recognize,
in the smoke of a candle snuffed
at the very edge of twilight's serenade.