Follow the echoes, they whisper ancient tales,
Of pathways woven with forgotten dreams,
In corridors of dusk, where light seldom breathes.
I wander, a shadow tracing its step on soft gravel,
The ground knows me well, as I sift through its history.
Who sets these cues? Not I, with my eyes closed,
Feeling heat blooms from walls, from every hidden seam—
Each pulse, convincing, in the skin of the blind.
Listen, beneath the labyrinth's hardened whispers, I am lost
Yet found, in the haunting symphony of solitudes.
Where does the path lead? Beyond this breathless maze,
To shores painted with stars, draped in silver mist.
The night smells of old parchment and honeyed sighs,
Seeping through cracks of my mind, through spells I wrote
In sleep's elusive grasp. Follow, follow, I say, and follow they do...