The Silent House

In a quiet corner where shadows dwell,
Stands a silent house, under a broken spell.
Its windows, like eyes, gazing out to the night,
Whisper forgotten tales in the fading light.

The garden once danced with colors so bright,
Now lies draped in memories, shrouded in white.
The roses, once bold, now lean towards the ground,
Their petals like secrets, in silence unbound.

Inside, the echoes of laughter now fade,
Footsteps of children in dreams softly laid.
Dust settles gently on furniture worn,
Where time’s gentle hand has silently torn.

A clock on the mantel ticks slow and subdued,
Counting the moments of joy, solitude.
In every corner, a story remains,
Of love and of loss, of hopes and of chains.

The attic holds whispers of letters once penned,
Promises made that the years couldn’t mend.
The walls breathe a sigh, the floor creaks a tune,
As if longing for life to return to this room.

But the silence, it thickens, a blanket of grey,
Embracing the shadows that linger and stay.
Yet beneath all the stillness, a flicker of light,
A spark of remembrance in the heart of the night.

For though it may stand in a moment of pause,
The silent house lives with its own set of laws.
A keeper of secrets, a witness to time,
In silence, it whispers, a delicate rhyme.