In the corner, it lingers—a relic of the past,
Where spectral notes once waltzed and swirled,
Each chord a breath of heaven’s craft,
Shaped by hands that stitched love into sound.
Now it slumbers beneath a veil of dust,
A monument to echoes in a fractured world.
It once sang Debussy, Rachmaninoff—
Now mourned by silence, slowly unfurled.
Its voice, hushed by the passage of time,
A quiet witness to fading flames—
Of art grown ghostly, slipping away,
Its sorrow sealed within the frame.
The strings lie still, their shimmer gone,
A whisper of what we’ve become—
A final note for phantoms alone,
In this cold and silent auditorium.
