A hint of shadow cast upon the walls,
Tells a tale of secrets carried alone,
Endlessly through dim and empty halls,
Of memory, not of mortar and stone,
But of life and passion, room by room.
A living mansion where a life may hide,
Where darkness dwells in galleries of gloom,
And untold and hidden stories reside.
I wander the vast palace in my mind.
My footfalls echo through hall, stair, and spire,
Unsure what I seek or what I may find,
Each step illuminated by foxfire.
Yet, I press on through the flickering night,
False fire in search of a haven of light.
The path of memory can be as dark as midnight in the deep wood. Yet, the cold candle of certain fungi on decaying wood, often referred to as foxfire, can seem bright indeed. Perhaps decaying memories have their own foxfire.