In lifeless room where echoes walk,
the sketched mirage quietly talks,
of time beyond where shadows wilt,
and eyes of glass by night's thread built.
Threads of sand wove whispers still,
marionette dreams on a window sill.
To venture forth where stillness weaves
blind shadows whisper hollow grieves.
How treacherous the weary tone,
when spoke of lands long silent grown.
Splintered lights of evening's calleth,
guard dust's secrets none shall bequeath.