In ancient halls where shadows weave their dance, Immortal souls drift through the endless trance. Bound by the curse of time's eternal bane, Their hearts grow weary, withered by the strain. Prometheus’ flame, yet burns not quenched nor dimmed, But in its glow, the spirit's edge is trimmed. Immortal thoughts wind through the labyrinth wide, Where Theseus’ thread has long since been denied. Echoes of gods, their whispers soft and sly, Cadmus’ serpent sheds its skin, yet cannot die. In endless cycles of rebirth and decay, The soul's own fabric starts to fray away. Beneath the weight of deathless years, they yearn, For Lethe's touch, a memory to burn. Petrified in eternity’s quiet snare, Immortal minds unravel in despair.