When the twilight curtain crashes, silencing the cacophony of the day,
the shadowy figure of the wardrobe leans, its worn wooden spine
creaking under tales unspoken. Secrets draped in cobwebs,
whispered from long-ago folds of silk and faded muslin.
"Here, among moth-eaten memories, I keep the scent of
sandalwood and crimson whispers," it murmurs,
echoing like the last notes of a forgotten sonata.
Linger by my door, hear me reveal:
the clandestine rendezvous of stolen silk
with the threads of daylight, gentle yet insistent,
embroidered in shadows upon the closet floor.
Under the luminescent gaze of the desk lamp, the desk—sturdy and solemn—watches, its arched back a cradle for anguished thoughts expressed and mysteries penned in ink's fleeting embrace. "I have felt the tremors of souls upon parchment, their dreams and disillusions sinking into my being," it sighs, an ancient wisdom trailing across its polished expanse, whispering the dirges of forgotten letters, their ink bled dry in desperate confessions.