No Idea What Amos

In the hazy maze of oblivion,
whispers of what once was,
a record skipping, haunting, echoing.
Listen closely, nothing new,
yet everything timeless.

The clock's hands dance in loops,
clockwise against dreams' wishes,
where moments curl like smoke;
ephemeral, beautiful, cruel.

Cycle of Days Echoes in the Wall The Maze of Nothing