In the spirals of twilight corridors,
faded whispers dance upon echoes,
a semaphore stands lonesome,
blinking in muttered echoes of old.

Gossamer lanterns flicker,
tethered to remnants of light,
awaiting signals from forgotten sentinels
guarding the crescent dreams.

When words were lanterns,
their glow a hymn to the lost,
invites a tender silence,
as corridors remember the quiver of stars.