The candle wax drips to the autumn floor,
marking silent paths once thought so clear.
Look into the abyss; it gazes without intent
only murmuring in the forgotten tongue,
spun tales that time forged through
ivory halls and wistful dreams.
Here, the shadows skitter—
illicit whispers embroider secrets
in the fabric of midnight ink.
The laughter of absent clocks—
a dissonance trivial yet profound.