In the twilight realm of phantoms
where shadows play games with light
a whisper echoes: "Follow me, but
do not trust the mapping of stars"
Paths diverge, converge, then split
again into mazes without endings
digits, etchings, scribbles in
the sand of time
I walk, or perhaps I float? Choices
ripple beneath the surface,
reality blurs, a soft watercolor
of undefined edges