In the hush between dusk and the grave of the moon,
I wander veiled paths where night flowers bloom.
A whisper, a scar, a kiss I’ve not known—
Yet bled in my sleep like a wound of my own.
Eyes in the mirror are not always mine,
They burn with a hunger shaped out of time.
He calls through the smoke of a world torn in two,
A shadow of silence that somehow feels true.
We pass in the dark like a secret unsaid,
One waking, one dreaming, one calling the dead.
If fate hides the thread, still I follow it blind—
He is lost in the fog, but he’s seeking my mind.
