The lace tapestry moved ghostly  
When a wafting breeze caught it
And delicately tussled it’s sensitive fabric
The dust lying thick on mirrors
And around desks and cupboards
Telling of its immense age.
The mirrors calcified and barely reflective
Caught sight of the specters
This haunted inhabitance
Inherited by gruesome recollections
And apparitions that moan like the wind
Those who still dance in these forsaken halls
The dead who speak in these corridors