She dreams in velvet, gold, and dust,
a palace built on longing’s trust.
Her chandeliers still softly gleam—
but every light recalls a dream.
The halls were hushed. The rugs were thick.
Each step I took felt slow, and slick—
as though the past had dressed in lace,
and turned to watch me leave no trace.
No blood was spilled upon these floors,
no screaming ghosts behind the doors.
But still—she feels like someone grieves,
in every stair and curve of eaves.
I found a mirror near the throne.
It blinked, I swear, like it had known
some version of me, once before—
or maybe someone it adored.
The walls were carved with hands long gone.
The silence stretched, but carried on.
And I, a guest in velvet gloom,
could feel the breath of every room.