"The path turns, familiar yet foreign..."
In the labyrinth of thought, where shadows whisper your name,
Footsteps echo on cobblestones woven from dreams,
Skipping beats in an unplayed symphony, a melody unheard yet known.
The air thickens with the scent of past yesterdays,
Pine needles, dew-kissed under a sun not seen today,
But stitched in time's grand tapestry—a plot unwritten.
Lost letters in forgotten drawers, ink bleeding onto history,
Ink that once wept joy and sorrow alike, now static in silence,
Each word a ghost, each pause a breath held in the air of longing.
The path forks, a mirror reflecting a path gone by,
Choices wearing masks of familiarity, a dance of whirls and twirls,
The spiral staircase to nowhere leads somewhere, doesn't it?
Echoes of laughter, echo of silence, echo of echoes,
From the cloister of hearts hoping, knowing, fearing—
Second upon millennia, dawn upon dusk, another step, another path...