Shadows whisper in archaic tongues
beneath the surface of unshed dreams.
The circle... door?
endless, descent, round again,
spiraling inwards, consuming -
ripples in the dark water,
a monument to lost echoes.

Scribbled notes on parchment, ink spills,
the sigils are wrong, escape?
| no, their meaning is clear, not truth,
the circle speaks
in tongues unknown,
fevered whispers, a scream,
your reflection shatters,
into a thousand splintered lies...