The Sculptor of Grief

The door creaks open, a whisper in the gloom, Dust motes dance in the desolate room. A figure steps in, weary and worn, To a place he knew, but now seems forlorn. Eyes that have seen oceans, deserts, and stars, Now see only shadows, etched with scars. The hearth is cold, the laughter is gone, Replaced by a silence, heavy as stone. Forms stand frozen, a lifelike array, But no breath escapes, no words they convey. Loved ones and friends, trapped in their shell, A room full of ghosts, in this silent spell. He walks through the stillness, a touch on each face, A memory surfaces, a time and a place. Each statue a story, a love left behind, In this desolate haven, for his weary mind. At the room's far end, a figure so dear, He reaches out, trembling, fighting back tears. A touch, a caress, on a cheek cold and gray, And the dust starts to fall, like memories in decay. Hand in hand, they crumble to the ground, No solace, no answers, in this desolate sound. The room full of ghosts, now empty and bare, Leaving him with the silence, and the ghosts he must bear.