In the shifting halls at dawn,
where light bends into secret shapes,
there lies a map drawn on wind -
its edges frayed,
its ink alive.
They call it the Kaleidoscope Corners,
where the world folds at its edges
and shards of light spin
like jeweled cards in invisible hands,
dealing destinies you didn’t know you carried.
Here, rivers run backward
into the mouths of stars,
and mountains bloom
with flowers that hum
in colors your eyes can’t name.
The sky is a jar of spilled black ink,
shaping cities with wings for spires,
their windows breathing
like creatures half-awake.
Every turn is a gamble -
one step to a city of glass and laughter,
another to a mountain of sleeping giants.
Shadows trade faces in the glass,
whispering names
you’ve never heard before.
There is a gate of living bone
that opens
to a staircase woven
from coral and constellations.
It climbs into the mouth of a giant
whose breath smells faintly of tangerines.
Travelers speak of a door
carved from all the moments
you swore you’d never forget -
its handle warm,
its lock a heart key.
Open it,
and see yourself
in every life you could have lived,
each version reaching out to you
with a different smile.
The corners do not guide you -
they mirror you,
fractured and whole,
until you become the very pattern
you once sought to follow.
And somewhere,
far beyond those turning streets,
a man dreams of crushing clocks
with his hands,
shattering time into pieces
small enough to pocket -
so no one can tell you
when to leave,
or how long to stay.