In the realm of endless corridors,
whispers echo beyond the veils,
weaving tales of forgotten doorways.
Ponderings float like autumn leaves,
on currents of unspoken words,
tracing spirals in the azure dusk.
The path is not a path,
but a sequence of voids and fulgurations,
a labyrinth without a center.
Consider the spiral paths within
where echoes meet horizons,
and shadows dance in fractal light.
There's no end, only beginnings,
concealed within the folds,
of time's ambiguous tapestry.