Starry-eyed statues resting behind drapes,

in a mirror-filled mansion with a curious shape.

Crystal walls and spirits well-versed,

the fate of the glowing is rarely rehearsed.

From a captive spiral

fading vultures screech their ballad,

starving for diamonds and stolen valour.

Now the doors are deadlocked,

the velvet curtains drawn,

to keep out the swords

from the land of the scorned.

One hundred walls.

The sacred labyrinth contorts.

Falsifying reality;

the curse of the forlorn.