Alone in the quiet corners of a hushed abode,
Where silence reigns, and footsteps seldom trod,
The walls, like ancient scribes, they stand so tall,
And in their stoic presence, secrets call.
Each room a vault of whispers softly shared,
Where solitude and solitude have paired,
In hidden nooks, confessions softly weep,
The walls, the keepers of secrets, silent, deep.
A painting’s gaze, a hushed and muffled cry,
Each crevice holds a tale, a lullaby,
The attic’s treasures, dusty and concealed,
Unveil the mystic history they shield.
In whispered echoes and the creak of floors,
The walls, they listen, guard the ancient lore,
A memoir etched in every hushed lament,
The beauty of the secrets they have intent.
For in this quiet haven, you and they,
Together dwell in solace, night and day,
The walls, they are more than bricks and plaster’s plea,
They cradle hidden beauty’s mystery.
© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi
Ifedolapo Ogunniyi 