Empty Cradle

She rocks in a chair carved hollow with years,

Eyes dry of tears, yet soaked in fears.

Each photo she holds is a phantom’s breath,

A whispering relic of life and death.

The fire is low, casting ember-born cries,

Lighting old frames with flickering lies.

A bridal veil, a shadowed ring,

Symbols of what love failed to bring.

No infant’s wail had ever been heard,

No cradle stirred, no lullaby word.

Yet in that room she placed her care,

A cradle waits in deadened air.

Its blankets folded, dust-laced, white,

Untouched by morning, child, or night.

Dolls bear eyes too wide, too still,

Their silence drips like something ill.

She speaks to ghosts who never came,

Imagined faces without a name.

A lullaby hums in her brittle chest,

But grief’s long arms will grant no rest.

Old ribbons hang like strangled grace,

Time peels the paint from every face.

The floorboards groan with secrets deep,

And shadows crawl where none should creep.

The window breathes a frozen moan,

Winter claws through skin and bone.

She clutches lace, she calls for grace,

But silence floods the cursed space.