In the shadowed corners of her mind,
Where whispers weave through time,
Sylvia’s soul seeks solace lost,
In echoes of a silence glossed.

Through verses penned with sorrow’s ink,
Loneliness lingers on the brink,
Each word a mirror to her pain,
A tempest of a heart’s refrain.

Beneath the weight of winter’s chill,
Her spirit wanders, restless still,
Through fields of thought, both dark and deep,
Where dreams and nightmares dare to creep.

In solitude, she finds her muse,
A fragile thread she dares to use,
Weaving tales of night and day,
In Sylvia’s world, where shadows play.