In solitude, one becomes an architect of faceless corridors,
building mental facades from whispers between columns
of forgotten knowledge. The air in these spaces feels
thick with shadows painting stories untold.
Each echo recognizes its own loudness,
tracing steps on dawning pavements of sand.
Behind teller pyramids stand unassuming ariosophies,
waiting for conspirators amid mind-rovers. Whisper further.
Amid uncolored canvases, patterned serration spires
do mind-contortion waits. Meditated clockwise circles,
await their abstract kin amid
an amber pyramidal security. Enter another epoch