In suspended animation, along corridors of uncertain reality,
the owls sing opera to the moonlit sea, casting shadows
upon which dreams inadvertently drown. Isolation,' whispered the upside-down clock,
as vines curled around its obsolescence, ticking nowhere.
Follow the path 'neath the web of forgotten teacups,
a trail of porcelain hearts echo the sound of
laughter that once was, or perhaps, never was.
Ascend the staircase of sighs, carved in the whispers of long-gone winds,
where each step resounds with silent declarations of love
made by strangers hidden in time's cryptic embrace.
Take heed of the whispering trees, where clocks lie in slumber
and dreams float by like ships made of hollow spine.
“Lost is only lost if the destination remembers you,” a voice proclaims
from inside the spectral lantern glowing with secrets untold.