In the corners of the mind, where shadows keep secrets,
lies a whisper, softer than the wind, colder than the void.
Here, once a figure of light stood, now a mere echo, a presence that fades.
"I wander through rooms of endless dusk," it murmurs,
"Where my soul is both visitor and exhibit." The walls breathe,
their ancient stones weep, and I am left to decipher the language of cracks.
In this museum of silence, paths unwalked stretch before
me, each step a page unwritten in the book of shadows.
Curators of sorrow, they call: "Come, see the unseen."
At the break of night, when all is still and
the stars hide beneath a shroud of mist,
I hear the laughter of specters,
a jarring symphony
that reverberates through my ephemeral form.
Am I the presence that fades? I ponder,
lost in the museum's embrace. Echoes answer not,
and I find solace in the shadows, where fading is but another way of being.