Verse 1
The house exhales in dust and light, a slow and patient sigh,
Wallpaper peels like memories that nobody can buy.
Floorboards keep the rhythm of a footstep long since gone,
Windows hold the winter where the afternoon hangs on.
Chorus
In the hush of silent decrepitude I learn to listen close,
To the small, resigned applause of things that time composed.
Cobwebs stitch the corners where the laughter used to bloom,
And every shadow keeps a name, a room within a room.
Verse 2
A clock with missing numbers counts the hours it forgot,
Portraits fade to outlines of the promises they caught.
The kettle sings a single note that trembles into steam,
And sunlight finds the fractures where the old house keeps its dream.
Chorus
In the hush of silent decrepitude I learn to listen close,
To the small, resigned applause of things that time composed.
Dust motes map the stories that the daylight can’t consume,
And every silence is a seed that waits to be in bloom.
Bridge
There is grace in slow surrender, in the way the ivy climbs,
In the patient, quiet language of the weathered, honest lines.
We are paper, we are timber, we are rust and we are root—
Learning how to hold the weight of what we cannot refute.
Chorus
In the hush of silent decrepitude I learn to listen close,
To the small, resigned applause of things that time composed.
Let the rafters keep their secrets, let the rafters keep their tune,
I will sit beneath the rafters and remember how to bloom.
Outro
When the door at last is open and the wind begins to move,
May the echoes find their footing in the quiet left to prove.
Silent decrepitude, a hymn for what remains—
A gentle, honest ending stitched with sunlight and with stains.
TheWhatTverrTunes525
