Unclaimed

Behind the glass, the gentle praises gleam; Relics from a long-forgotten dream. Each framed in care, each letter finely cast; A testament to moments never meant to last. The voices linger, gentle, but never near; The warmth long gone, yet strangely clear. They came with grace, and left with ease; Like winds that stir but never seize. The halls are bright, yet quietly confined; They hum with traces people leave behind. Some rooms hold warmth, some only its refrain; Both shimmer once, then wane again. And though I walk their glow each passing day, It feels less like a gift, more like a display.