As the mist murmurs around the fringes of the unseen town, shadows gather in furtive clutches,
awaiting the echo of footsteps none dare admit they seek. It is an echo of whispers,
ruffled like dry leaves rustling against obsidian nights.
Beneath the moon, a lantern flickers and down sideways streets pass reflections of
forgotten words.
The clock strikes silently, a rhythm too steady for worlds spun of gold and shadow.
Time here is a mirror, asking questions
of drowned lakes—Then dreams awake the echoes of
scraped bone against the mirror's edge, calling.
Will you descend this predestined road, or draw lines in the mist circuits of
your mind?
Ancient cathedrals punch the sky's wayward gaze, their spires hungry for gods that
scamper across valleys of fading light.
And somewhere beneath their vaulted gaze, a portrait weeps unsketched
in the margins of existent anguish.
"Through mirrorsung, words glisten, rejecting their own borders."
"Endless mirror dances, a silent bolster to an unwritten tragic opera."
"When crickets serenade reflections of once-trees, do they cry in mirrorsong?"