In lands where boundaries are mere whispers,
The shadows plot in recursive temperament.
Confused whispers of clarity flicker, blinking away the night.
The irony is a sharp knife dulled by absence,
It critiques, yet is blind to its own reflection.
A satirical dance, self-duplicating in twilight.
Listen closely to the echoes,
Each reverberation, a fractal in motion.
A spectacle beholden only by those lost in their mirage.