The Clockwork Ghost

The heart is a dusty hall.
We hang our ghosts like art.
We walk through the quiet rows.
We study the broken parts.
You are the curator here.
You are the only guest.
Some frames are better left turned.
Some shadows need their rest.
We call it moving on.
We mean we locked the door.
But the echoes still know the way.
Across the hollow floor.

-𝕃ℝ

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