In a frame that flickers, I begin again—
not young, not old, just becoming.
A breath caught between mirrors,
each blink a universe folding inward,
each silence loud with motion.

Five truths I’ve whispered to the wind,
Five more I’ve carved from flame.
None stayed long,
but all left shadows
etched behind the eyes.

Time loops not in lines, but spirals—
an ouroboros of wonder and wear.
Faces fade to reveal
what was always there:
the pulse beneath the still.

So let this shifting skin speak—
a dance of ash and bloom.
Not a relic. Not a rise.
Just now. Just here.
Just art becoming form.

Echoes between the 5 double