The house still breathes, though no one stays,
Its windows weep the dust of days,
And ivy fingers softly trace
The shadows time dared to erase.

Within the hearth, a ghost of flame,
Still whispers low a lover’s name,
While cobweb veils and falling beams
Hold echoes made of fractured dreams.

The garden blooms on borrowed grief,
Each root entwined with memory’s leaf,
Here saddened wind forgets the sound,
Of hearts once whole, now underground.

Love lingers here, a quiet sigh,
More faithful than the living lie,
For time may strip the world apart,
But cannot touch what haunts the heart.

Some places never die; they simply fade into memory’s quieter dimension. The stones grow soft beneath moss, the air hums with silence, and yet…something remains. In every ruin there is remembrance, and in every forgotten thing, a trace of love too stubborn to release its hold.

Inspired by this verse that haunted my thoughts:
Expressed in shadows of neglected dreams,
living beyond the mortal coil,
fertile memories buried deep in soil…

This piece is a meditation on impermanence, on how time unravels what we build but can never wholly erase what we’ve felt. Even as the world forgets our names, love endures—rooted deep, blooming unseen, eternal in the soil of what was once alive.

~ Morgan C. Morgan
Writer of light, shadow, and the stories between.

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