In the quiet chambers of her mind,
Where whispers weave through hollow halls,
Sylvia’s thoughts, a tangled bind,
Dance alone, as darkness calls.

The moonlight casts a silver trace,
On pages filled with silent screams,
Her pen, a wand, in lonely grace,
Transforms the night into her dreams.

Shadows linger, ever near,
In corners where her sorrows dwell,
Each word she writes, a crystal tear,
From the depths of her private hell.

Through the veil of time and space,
Her solitude sings a haunting tune,
A lonely heart in a crowded place,
Forever under the cold, cold moon.