In rooms adorned with moonlight,
the silence sings forgotten hymns,
persistent as the dawn hour whispers,
through curtains weighed with sleep's tender sighs.
Gaze now into the phantoms' dance,
each step a brush against time's skin,
veils parting with a breath of wind,
the echoes of yesterday thrum softly, unyielding.
Shadows ink stories on ancient paper souls
where dreams left unwritten bleed in twilight’s embrace.
Listen, for the echoes of the past
unfurl like whispers in the dark.
A specter spoke once, their voice was slicing silk,
arcs of moonlit truth quivering as lilacs sighed.
Not all angels wear their stories clear,
some whisper to the rain,
their tears mere dew upon petals of a larger tale.