Lily’s breath in the corridor,
white as the ghost of a rose,
she walks where the portraits forget their names,
clock-ribs ticking under the floor.
Moonlight kneels on the marble,
polishing sorrow to glass;
every step is a promise broken backwards,
every echo a spell that never learned to die.
She carries the house in her hollow,
a heart of wax and ash;
if you hear her singing, close the door—
the song is the last thing you’ll remember.