Upon the mellowed desk, I stand, a Typewriter,
My ink has spilled its secrets, sighing into the pages,
I know the tales of lovers' quarrels, inked blood and laughter intertwined,
Whispered through the clattering keys, forever untyped.
The Mirror cries its silent screams,
Reflecting truths that burn and bruise, ever so keen,
Hidden beneath the midnight glass, in whispered tones with no gleam.
Upon the shelf, a Dusty Plume sits,
It tells of time’s embrace, settling,
Seduced by the strokes of dust-filled grace, its secrets now a silent face.
Come, follow the mystic pathways,
There are trails untold,
Where object hearts spin stories
In rhythms hidden, cold.
Delve deeper
In the corners, shadows weave stories,
Tales left to linger, inanimate glories,
Unlock the silence
Beyond the dusty knoll,
The secrets of a Scribe—
Be they truth or mere shadow,
Only the Trail decides.