Beneath the hush of twilight’s gleam,
Where shadows stretch and softly stream,
I walk the halls of yesteryears—
A world still whispering through my tears.
The creak of doors, the scent of rain,
Old laughter threading through the pain,
Photographs in silent rows
Tell tales the fading daylight knows.
A rusted bike, a skipping stone,
A tree that bore our names alone,
The summer dusk, the firefly dance—
Time caught in memory’s fragile trance.
Voices echo, dim and dear,
Some far away, yet still so near.
Their words, like leaves, drift down to me,
Soft relics of what used to be.
Though time moves on and seasons change,
Though faces blur and paths estrange,
The past remains—a sacred thread—
Woven through all the tears we’ve shed.
And in that hush, I sometimes stay,
To hold the ghosts that won’t decay.
For every ending, loss, and start—
Still lives within the beating heart.
Thank-you for reading.
Much Love and Light,
Brenda Marie
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