Echoes in the Hollow Room at Dusk
Where shadows stretch their fingers long and thin,
There lies a chamber—vacant, endless space—
A silent crypt where day’s last pulse grows dim.
No voice intrudes; no footfall stirs the air,
But whispers haunt the gloom with spectral grace,
And through the dusk-warmed panes, the amber glare
Draws veils of gold upon the room’s blank face.
Within this hollow, void of mortal moan,
Dwells she—the wistful soul in search of sound,
An âme en quête, restless and alone,
Who treads the stillness where no friends are found.
Her eyes are prisms catching fading light,
Her heart a fragile bell that calls unheard,
A harp untuned beneath the moon’s cold sight,
Each note dissolved before it forms a word.
She wanders ‘mid the echoes left behind,
The laughter once alive, the tears once shed,
Yet every trace dissolves within her mind,
As if the past were but a ghostly thread.
Her fingers brush the walls—cold, smooth, aloof—
The silence presses deep within her chest,
And in the air a mournful, trembling proof:
The vacant room invokes the human crest.
“Why,” she murmurs, “must the soul confine
Its yearnings to a cage of glass and shade?
Why does the heart, in solitude, define
Its only mirror by the love it’s made?”
No answer comes but from the fading light,
That breathes a sigh across the polished floor,
And twines the dusk into a silken night
Where time dissolves and dreams begin once more.
Her thoughts, like scattered leaves in autumn’s breath,
Are caught between the tender and the stark —
A reconciliation poised with death,
Yet clinging still to day’s last glowing spark.
The room, a vessel vast and unfulfilled,
Receives her voice, but offers no reply;
It holds her questions, breathless and distilled,
A silent sentinel beneath the sky.
The hollow chamber, emblem of the soul,
Reflects the solitude that all men share—
The empty spaces blackened by control,
The restless quest for meaning rare and fair.
She paces there—a pilgrim on a sea
Of shadows, seeking shores she cannot name,
In hopes that through the void’s deep harmony,
Her scattered echoes might converge in flame.
In silence, moments stretch and intertwine,
As if the dusk had woven time anew,
And from the void the faintest chords align—
A trembling thrum, a pulse that softly grew.
Her heart beats back, a tentative reply,
An ember glowing ’midst the evening chill,
A fragile spark beneath the vast, dark sky,
Announcing life persists beyond the still.
Yet still the chamber holds its secret close,
Its vastness neither cruel nor kind, but bare—
A mirror cracked upon the silent rose,
Whose fragrance lingers in the empty air.
She knows the room will never yield its core,
No final answer, no absolving light—
But in its boundless quietude, she’s more
Than prisoner; she’s witness to the night.
A breath withheld, a shudder in the dark,
A fading sigh that murmurs of return—
The chamber waits, a symphony to mark
The endless silence from which souls discern.
And as the dusk retreats with hints of dawn,
Her gaze drifts outward, past the closed door—
Where infinite horizons stretch and spawn
A world that waits to cradle evermore.
So there she lingers, poised on breath’s soft cusp,
Neither undone nor fully made complete,
An echo caught within a fragile lusp—
A heart that beats in absence and in beat.
The room remains, the dusk dissolves to night,
The chamber’s hollow vastness keeps its own—
And in that space between the dark and light,
The soul yet walks, forevermore unknown.
