Mist at the Stairs

Memory wraps itself in a cloak of mist.
Strolling down the steps, it recalls things extinguished.
Each thread veils a face, a faded word.
The floor holds time in a long breath.
From behind the stairs, it watches time in silence.
The mist is a mantle that does not betray.
The present passes, but leaves a muffled trace.
The past remains hidden among the rooms.
Time stops on the railings, curious.
The mist spies what it does not say aloud.
Voices sleep within the coils of air.
Memories ignite like small, invisible lanterns.
When the light goes out, memory stays wrapped.
It still spies time from behind the stairs.
We remain watching, hands empty and eyes full.
And the mist closes, yielding the day to its turn.