A room stops, with walls so uncovered,
Holding murmurs in the quiet air.
Once loaded up with voices, chuckling brilliant,
Presently shadows dance in pale twilight.
The wood planks squeak, a spooky sound,
Recollections wait, unbound, significant.
A weak, delicate reverberation, a far off murmur,
Of strides past that used to come.
The walls recollect, however nobody sees,
The delight, the aggravation, life’s delicate breeze.
Of hands that contacted, of words traded,
Of adoration that sprouted, then, at that point, discreetly different.
Draperies influence where windows broke,
Allowing in the night’s calm demonstration.
Through void space, the reverberations float,
Leftovers of a period that is slipped.
A seat stands by, in muffled effortlessness,
As though it pauses, an immortal spot.
For voices lost, for faces dear,
For life to inhale, so that spirits might hear.
However quietness holds a stunner intriguing,
A story carved in calm air.
An unfilled room, yet never gone —
It keeps the past, it waits on.
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