Whispers in the Fog
In shadowed streets where whispers creep,
I stand alone, the night so deep,
An observer wrapped in misty threads,
As secrets dance where silence treads.
A flicker of light, a hushed refrain,
Echoes of laughter, steeped in pain,
The moon, a witness, casts her gaze,
Upon the puzzle of fractured days.
Beneath the boughs of an ancient oak,
Where twisted roots and shadows cloak,
The air hums low with a timeless song,
Of something lost, yet lingering long.
Footsteps echo—a heartbeat heard,
A fleeting figure, cloaked in blurred,
With eyes like embers, they shimmer, then fade,
Into the folds of the evening's shade.
The townsfolk chatter of what they’ve seen,
Of a ghostly waltz in a silvery sheen;
Of laughter that haunts and lingers still,
Like a restless spirit with time to kill.
Lurking doubts in the minds unfold,
Whispers of stories never told;
What lies beneath this shroud of night?
A puzzle wrapped in the absence of light.
With every dawn, the fog retreats,
But shadows linger in the city's beats;
For mystery breathes where the known must cease,
An ember of wonder, a thread of peace.
So here I stand, engaged but apart,
In the web of the mystery, the pull at my heart;
For some may pursue, while others just roam,
But in every secret, I’ll find myself home.