Ashen grey is the house of remembering. 
Before each portal opens, 
your faceless bard swoons. 

He strikes a drum of bone and brittle whispers;

With cracked powd’ry fingers, 

he inscribes your name in dust.

He etches it longer than it ever was, 
the curves of your urn. 
You gather there your ashes and nourish my soul.

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In the quiet aftermath, the word "quit" echoes,  

A heavy silence in the corridors of memory.  

A single word, a door to myriad pathways,  

Each avenue intertwining, meandering through the fog.

Clues lie hidden in the shadows cast by our verses,  

Fleeting glimpses of understanding,  

Yet certainty eludes us, at every turn it seems:

Answers remain just out of reach.

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