Within the corridors of sinew and light,
Where every sigh meets the cold anvil of night,
There rests a specter, wrapped in cobwebs of trust.
Silk spun from sorrows, echoing, unseen, unjust.
Touch, they say, a fragile thing,
A silhouette on the heart’s trembling wing.
In the abode of shadows lies a gentle mirage,
Sculpted fiercely, the love of a passage.
Each echo a caress, each whisper a scream,
In the hollow of dreams, in the bend of a beam.
The tapestry woven from threads thin and old,
Breath of the ghost, in the midwinter cold.