No stone was laid to build these shifting walls,
But mirrors birthed from sand and dragon-breath;
Where every footstep through the silence falls,
To lead a wanderer toward a silver death.
The hunter sees a thousand versions flee,
Some old and bent, some golden-haired and young;
But which is ghost and which is truly he,
Among the many songs the glass has sung?
The center holds no beast of horn and hide,
But just a pool of water, deep and still;
Where all the vanity and all the pride,
Are broken by a cold and quiet will.
He reaches for the surface of the blue,
And finds the only exit is the true.
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