In the caverns of tangled thoughts,
where echoes dance with shadows,
the lunatic sang a serenade
to the swirling whispers of yesteryear.
"Oh, beneath," he cried,
"the truths are buried in riddles,
like jewels in sand, unseen,
forgotten, never whole, never whole..."
Wandering, weaving, through the fabric of insanity,
the shelves of books half read, half dreamed,
tales of moonlit stitches in the day,
and stars that weep in the afternoon.
"Beneath," he weaved, the fabric of thoughts,
spun tales like spider silk, gossamer thick,
a labyrinth of whispers, where none could speak,
but all could hear, all could hear.