In a world where Mondays sigh into oblivion and Wednesdays dance upon the remnants of straws, I gazed into an echo. The mirror, a mere shadowy portal, reflected what ought not be pondered.
Pictures regalia in paradox veils their mischievous grin; And in the tender hollow of reflection, lies the irony, the chosen'd unwisdom, repeated softly, through cascading glass.
Like clockwork noses diving deep into buried old gold, the days are shrouded jokers, mask off, truth unstable— An unseen orchestra marshals, conjuring future in reverse.