The Pale Hours

A sense of movement in silent rooms

Dust was raised in ascending spirals

Papers rustled in empty grates

The wind whistles through rotting frames

A sense of movement in silent rooms

It was the wind that made the trees move

Creating faint shadows that fell throught the cracks

Their shades drifting across the old mirror

For she comes to me still

In the lost time

Between sleep and wake

In the pale hours

A sense of movement in the silent rooms

The world reflected in the mirror, subtly different

Lonely shape moving within its depths

Finding no companion in the old house

It was the wind

Just the wind

A sense of movement in the silent rooms

It was the wind that carried these images

Of unknown past, a pale forgotten memory

Through the glass, into another reality

It was the wind

Just the wind