A weeping curtain falls quietly, begging of unsung music.
Dust collects and the fireplace yearns for the flames, and laughter,
Cobwebs map the corners, a million strings looking for a traveler.
Broken mirrors and dirty paintings, hung from long halls waiting to be seen,
Overgrown cobbled paths, leading to a house forgotten in the moonlight.
Candle wax dotted across the table, a harsh wind flowing through the glasses windows,
Beckoning for a dance in the lonely night.
Air whistles through the halls and up the staircase, the oak creaking in unspoken languages,
Moths flutter and fall, dive and soar over the frayed sheets towards the lantern.
Broken glass collects it's song, scattered over the floor,
Shattered and screaming, broken glass tells a tale.
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