In the dim-lit corner, a specter sings,
Melodies wrapped in moonlit threads,
Sweet songs of shadows, lost to time,
In whispers cold, the silence treads.
Every note a footprint on sand,
Imprinted deep in the echoes' curve,
Like glances exchanged through mirrored panes,
In realms where the past and present merge.
Murmurs of candles flicker and fade,
In shadowed halls where phantoms tread,
The walls confess to the wandering wisp,
The sweet song of what lies dead.