In a dim-lit room with curtains drawn,
She sits in silence, dusk to dawn.
A silver frame, a hollow chair,
Time fades away into the air.
Balloons drift gently near her side,
Bright relics from a day denied.
They whisper of a celebration past,
But memory’s fog is dense and vast.
Her eyes are glass, they search, they roam,
For some lost thread of place called home.
Faces and voices once so clear,
Now shadows fall, then disappear.
A ribbon flutters on the floor,
She wonders what it’s waiting for.
No clue that candles had been burned,
Or songs were sung she never discerned.
The clock ticks on but has no weight,
For her, no morning—no night, no date.
The hours dissolve, the years unwind,
A hollow echo in her mind.
She gazes long at colors bright,
Red, blue, and yellow in the light.
A fleeting spark, a name, a face—
Then gone—like mist—without a trace.
The party’s over, the guests are gone,
Yet still she sits, adrift, alone.
Her birthday passed, unknown, unsaid—
The balloons remain. The past is dead.
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