The Shadow Land

I traveled to a shadow land,
where mist forms rise,
in the mist, memories still stand,
beneath the veil of distant skies,
caught in the folds of time’s embrace,
a house on the hill stands cold and still,
a place where echoes leave no trace,
its halls once filled with laughter’s thrill.

In the shadow-land, where mist forms rise,
now echoes drift in the fading air,
beneath the veil of distant skies,
whispers of what once danced there.
There lies a space between the now and the past,
and in the garden, a statue stands alone.
Stories linger with shadows cast,
on her marble eyes, a reflection of stone.

Here, memories whisper, soft yet clear,
the King of Spain’s daughter, long since passed,
lives once lived and of ancient fear,
her story carved, her face held fast.
The house on the hill stands cold and still,
yet in this place, where light seems bent,
its halls once rang with laughter’s thrill,
now preexistence holds its ancient scent.

Only echoes drift through the air,
atavism haunts this shadowed space.
Whispers of what once danced there—
a changeling who walked with a borrowed face.
Though she smiled, her heart was thin,
her mind, a chamber of fleeting light,
bound to a fate she didn’t begin,
now filled with thoughts lost to the night.

In this land of preexistence deep,
into twilight’s glow, she would disappear,
where atavistic shadows creep,
leaving behind only white fear.
The changeling still walks with a borrowed face,
as two figures clash through her days,
caught in a fate she can’t erase,
she watches the duel, fought in a timeless haze.

Though she smiled, her heart was thin,
In twilight’s glow, she fades away,
bound to a life she didn’t begin,
leaving white fear to mark her stay.
In the duel, one held a sword, the other—
a flower, finite hands can only grasp so much,
Wood and steel both claimed their power,
in the end, all dissolve at the faintest touch.

Now a statue in the garden stands,
there in the garden where once laughter swirled.
Her marble eyes and frozen hands,
a faint reminder of another world.
Hold tight to tales of old and grand—
where shadows dance, and mist reforms,
The King of Spain’s daughter in a distant land—
where time collapses and life transforms.

Yes, a duel was fought in that timeless haze,
one held a sword, the other a flower,
two figures clashing through the days,
wood and steel both claimed their power.
Finite hands can only grasp
a faint reminder as darkness falls,
what time allows in its final clasp,
as laughter swirls through shadowed halls.

And in the air, the ancient scent
where mist reforms and life fades thin.
The echo speaks of the past, still imminent
as time collapses and dreams begin.
In the shadow-land where the changeling stayed,
for what we are, and what we seem,
a statue now, in marble made,
is fleeting as the faintest dream.

Preexistence, fear, and time entwined,
the King of Spain’s daughter stands still.
In the shadow-land, all things unwind,
yet her echo lingers on the hill.
A tale of lives both grand and small,
though beauty fades, though stories cease,
frozen now in memory’s hall,
their echoes stir in time’s release.

Into the shadow-land, all things must go,
the shadow-land, where the changeling stayed,
where mist and myth forever flow.
She is a statue now, in marble made.
The King of Spain’s daughter may be still,
but what we are, and what we seem,
exists in echoes lingering on the hill,
fleeting as the faintest dream.