The echo of mourning doves settles upon fractured memory, each note a silver, swaying ripple in the stillness.
Through the decay of whispered honesty, moments unravel—a festooning entity of solemn wit and regret that wears shadows as a crown.
Fragments of silence warp within trembling windows, their arches of solitude taut with woven sighs.
Beyond the spectral ruins, lies an unseen calvary, guarding what remains of yesterday's elegy.
The clock on the mantle ticks backward.
There are doors that open into nowhere.
A mirror speaks only in the language of fading.
Hang low a bell that tolls forsaken.