In the twilight moments, when dust and despair embrace, the old armchair grips tight secrets of its occupants:
'I gather all they’ve said, muffled dreams and stolen traumas; it wedged itself into the fabric of my being like nails upon a darkened cross.'
The door sighs, creaking an ode to long forgotten entries,
'Oh, the weight of every night spent, each click of the latch resounds with unspoken fears. What goes beyond me shadows too deep to trace.'
The noose of a velveteen curtain, whispering mysteries entwined with theft and laughter long past, hushed echoes of a life cast aside:
‘Interlaced with grime and shadows I witness, parting curtains like peeling paint tell tales enshrined in sorrows of a calamitous evening.’
What secrets lurk in your walls, what frayed threads do you clutch, Mossy umbrella, injured by forgotten outdoor storms?
‘You’ve seen them daily, cherished until they tremble under the might of heavy hearts—yet never unfurl your fabric; the outside scares you dreadfully.’
A world tired of pretending dreams can soar while chairs dangle woven nightmares; rustling whispers will descend eternal.