In the dusky hush of the forgotten cupboard, the ancient vase sighs within its porcelain throat,
confessing secrets to the dust sheets draped over vintage swings.
They breathe tales of ephemeral lavender sunsets
where similes tear apart.
Beneath the carved oak table, lies the old compass: it's magnetic heart beats
for an unknown north, tracing circles of tangled memories.
Inside its invisible chamber, dreams osculate,
untethered by navigations or nostalgia's anchors.
A single lonely chair,
with splinters like etchings of loneliness whispered into wood
through sleepless nights, bears witness to touch and isolation,
siding with only phantoms of those who once studied the light trickling in.
The mirror himself, a silent voyeur,
sees shadow syndromes reflected, who lure
echoes into deceptive symmetries, begging a distant world that never calls back.
Quirks of their identities, inconspicuous oddities morph with every second drift.