The velvet drape of silence falls, a heavy, dust-stained shroud,
And only one small, golden nerve insists on pushing through the cloud.
It is the flame, unsteady soul, that leans upon the pane,
Casting long, spectral digits, tracing names the years disdain...
This fragile wick, this anchor bright, holds steady against the storm of night.
It burns the minutes of the present, yet will not touch the scroll it found.
A bridge of wax and shadowed gleam, fulfilling an eternal dream—
For here, the words are not consumed, they simply make the turning sound
Of memory that will not yield, by fate or fire unrevealed.
The light is scarred, but the lettering endures.
Listen to the Mystic Folk song in the Members’ Area.
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