A child’s room hums with forgotten dreams,
The ceiling fan creaks, its sorrow teems.

Once it spun tales, soft and sweet,
Now it's whispers drag, slow and bleak.

The lullabies linger, but twisted in pain,
A melody broken, like tears in the rain.

The walls hold the echoes of laughter now gone,
The night hums a sigh, a hollow yawn.

The fan’s rusty blades carve circles of grief,
Each turn is a reminder, too sharp to believe.

The bed sits too empty, the sheets cold and bare,
The fan’s mournful song hangs heavy in the air.

Oh, guardian of stories, why do you weep?
Has the silence grown louder, the darkness too deep?

It groans like a ghost, its voice worn and thin,
A keeper of memories, frayed at the brim.

The child’s lost footsteps, the toys left behind,
The fan keeps them spinning, though time is unkind.

And so in the stillness, it cries and it cries,
A mechanical heart where a young soul dies.

.    .    .