Mosaic of Reveries in the Forgotten Atelier
Where whispered dust and shadowed sighs entwine,
A Kreator wanders, chasing dreams once strewn
Like fractured glass upon a broken shrine.
His hands—poised trembling o’er each drifted shard—
Seek semblance in the scattered remnant’s gleam,
Yet in the shards, reflections grim and hard,
Reveal the ghostly frames of a vanished dream.
The atelier, a temple obsolete,
Where once the forge of fervent visions blazed,
Now lies entombed beneath the time’s defeat,
Its splendors dulled, its canvases erased.
Mosaics broken rend the wall’s embrace,
Each tesserae a fragment’s frozen breath,
A constellation void of form or place,
Suspended in the fog of waking death.
“Where lies the vision, Muse?” the Kreator asks,
His breath a wilted leaf in autumn’s hand.
“Am I but prisoner to these broken masks,
Or sovereign still to build my mystic land?”
His voice an echo caught in hollow stone,
A syllable of hope, yet drowned by years;
The atelier, refuse, his only throne—
His quest obscured beneath lamenting tears.
Among the shards—each swathed in spectral light—
A tesserae glimmers, azure-smitten bright:
The glint reminds of oceans deep and calm,
Of souls that wander seeking healing balm.
He seizes it, a phoenix feather lost,
Will fate bestow him wings to rise anew?
Or must he pay the price of quelled exhaust,
The artist bound in ceaseless rue?
His mind, a crucible of fractured thought,
Wrestles with echoes of forgotten years;
A monologue in silence oft long sought,
Where identity dissolves in veils of fears.
“Am I but sum of all I dare create,
Or something veiled behind the artist’s guise?
Were dreams to form a soul they’d resonate—
Yet I discern but webs of thin disguise.”
Beneath his gaze, the shattered glass did gleam,
Like stars repossessed from the night’s vast dome,
Each piece a note in life’s eternal theme,
Yet lost, unplayed upon the keys of home.
A symphony of moments, torn asunder,
Drawn from the wellspring of transient breath;
The fragile dance of being, torn asunder—
A courtship twixt creation and bleak death.
Before him, a window cracked and faintly bare,
Unfurled the tapestry of dusk and dawn;
The melting hues that lingered in the air,
A liminal realm where present meets the gone.
He reached to touch the subtle shifting light,
And felt the tremor of the world unknown,
Where time dissolves in streams of endless night,
And selves like ships unmoored find fleeting home.
A specter thus appeared, a voice, a shade—
Not of this realm, but conjured from his mind,
A whisper in the fabric of the glade,
Of dreams dissolved yet leaving trails behind.
“Creator, ye who weave the fragile frame,
Are you the master, or the clay to kiln?
Is fleeting essence bearer of true name,
Or echo bound within the mortal’s skin?”
He answered not, for words were but a veil;
The truth lay shrouded in the silent loom.
His heart, the pendulum between travail
And hope—a fading yet unyielding bloom.
To forge his soul amidst the shards of yore,
To marry past and future in a breath;
Yet in this quest, his anchor split and tore—
Identity adrift between life and death.
With trembling fingers, he began to weave
A pattern new from fragments old and lost,
Each tesserae a secret to conceive,
A memory’s ember kissed by time’s frost.
The floor awoke with colors vast and deep,
An undulating river of despair and grace;
A mosaic born from agony’s steep,
Yet framed within a delicate embrace.
The broken light refracted fields of glass,
Each hue a chord within the soul’s refrain,
A narrative that neither Time could pass,
Nor Death extinguish from the artist’s pain.
Yet in the growing labyrinth he sought,
No final shape revealed its sovereign breath;
The vision stayed elusive, merely caught—
A flicker dancing close to realms of death.
He paused, and in the interlude of strain,
Felt weightless as a leaf upon the wind.
No longer bound by fear, nor bound by chain,
A fleeting moment where the self might blend.
“Oh, to be more than shadow or a shard,
To hold the infinite within my frame!”
Yet echoes answered only soft and hard—
An unfinished canvas void of name.
The night deepened, cloaking thoughts in sable,
While stars beyond the glass orchided bright.
A silent reckoning, expansive, stable,
Neither closure born nor vanquished night.
The atelier, breath caught between the hours,
Whispered its tales as walls began to hum,
A pulse, a beat, the bloom of nascent flowers,
Hinting at crowns beyond what eyes become.
The Kreator stood, a figure half-complete,
Between the fragments of his fractured fate.
His gaze not backward basking in retreat,
Nor forward bound by certainty’s sharp weight.
An open door within the chrysalis,
A voyage veiled in mist and whispered sighs,
The quest of self—the eternal abyss—
Where dreams dissolve but never truly die.
And so within that room of shattered glass,
The artisan once lost, yet still undone,
Beheld the dance of future’s steadfast mass—
A journey unfinished, yet just begun.
For in mosaic’s fleeting, ghostly gleam,
The soul’s own visage, veiled and incomplete,
Reflects the endless search that all must dream—
A vision found within the heart’s retreat.
