The mind is a haunted house draped in lace,
With perfume ghosts and a cracked mirror face.
Creaking doors lead to rooms of regret,
Where old love letters are damp with sweat.

In the attic, dreams hang like gowns,
Sequins and shadows in delicate frowns.
I slow dance with memory, dressed in a night,
A flash, one moment and then I say goodbye.

Down in the dark where the secrets sleep,
I hum lullabies that still make me weep.
So if you knock, come in gentle and slow
Not every locked door has something you want to know.