Silent draperies drown in forbidden gloom;
hidden tales radiate from decaying lace.
Every loose strand of thread
threatening to sway in the wrong direction.
The floor boards creak with the strangest elegance
and alone in the corner does the mohagony table stand.
Choking on the slightest breeze, the nightingale would not agree
with the bitter sentimental notes of the aging rocking chair.
A shattered mirror on the wall, stained with clumpy spots of blood;
segmented glass strewn upon an ancient dressing table.
The yellowing parchment of books
lay torn and tattered upon a dusty bookshelf.
A splintered vase resides within a wincing cupboard,
chartered teacups shiver with the icy wind.
A solitary figure stands aside
composed of simple dress and shoes,
enveloped with memories of beforeó
a time of iridescent homecomings.