Beneath the surface of mundane existence,
the trembling relics whisper tales untold.
Like shadows beneath a flickering lamp,
the reflections of hidden lives come forth.
The echoing winds of chaos hum softly,
a graceful serenade through obsolete drawer compartments,
where the broken clock ticks not, yet knows all.
Clocks once exquisite, now holding grudges,
against time itself, for having left them alone in rust,
guised as specks of fleeting dust,
their hands unfurl everlasting secrets.
Alarmed whispers, amidst tangled gears,
frail voices cry, "Set us free!"
Beneath faded linoleum, behind cracked porcelain,
a lonely cast-iron key hoards secrets of doors never opened,
murmurs of hidden truths, encrusted with silence and despair,
its oxidized presence a solemn sentinel
biding the untilted fate of forgotten chambers.
Shrouded in solitude, narrow veils of mystery unfold
under the moon's quilt of velvet night.
Seek the
murmurs of murmurs
through echoing passages of silent storerooms,
attend to their lingering lamentations.
The coiled serpent of winter's breath rests in silence,
but speak too softly, lest one awaken that which sleeps.
Threads of fate dangle carelessly from a
single unraveling carpet corner, whispering truths
preserved through symphonies of clattered† stillness.
Lull yourself to sleep amidst the murmurs of time,
lay beyond folds of structural narratives,
weave yourself into a patterns unforgotten.
Learn the hymn humbly sung by brass handles,
and clasp onto the warmth of memories rusted and aged.
Yet in truth, do these secrets serve you,
or shall they xxyza ytab reregyera ignabcdefgh esgv emno?