In the abandoned corridors, walls speak in echoes,
a chorus of forgotten dreams suspended in amber.
Time weaves through here like a soft spider's silk,
fragile, gossamer, when touched, whispers frozen.
Shadows follow paths worn smooth by a thousand
unseen footsteps, leading nowhere, promising everywhere.
The air is thick with the residue of silence,
the kind that swallows words before they can escape.
Once there was a door — now it is but a memory,
marked in the dust of ages. Beyond it, the infinite awaits
or perhaps just another shadow, waiting to greet
the silence with the echo of its passing.
Walk gently, for the whispers cling to your feet,
tracing patterns only they understand. Listen
for the stories in the walls, the tales they weave
in the weft of time, suspended, waiting for a careless touch
And when you leave, carry with you the echo,
a fragment of these corridors that never end.
Remember the song sung by the quiet,
the notes neither heard nor lost to the void...