Can you see the ghosts of hours past?
In each room, shards of yesterday, cutting into memory recall, to question, guide and console.
Can you see the ghosts of moments past?
Echoing in freefall, as times run out, and you become a shadow of your former doubt.
Can you see the ghosts of seconds passed?
Shedding their skin, eroding asunder. Sweet salvation save me from being there when the ink runs out.