Invited not, what phantoms rise from the vaults of thought, returning ever, like pale shades from Lethe’s shore, those silent guests that haunt the chambers of the mind, uncalled, as once a hymn was sung in youth beneath the sky of gold.

Never shall I, the keeper of my own lore, welcome their tread, as one who greets the dawn, but shall cast them forth to that abyss where remains all truly lost, and nevermore return. For they come not clothed in grief, but in the garb of unyeilding stillness bringing fire, not balm.

This born of solitude’s long reign, does fill the hours when mortal company is fled, when silence is as sovereign king. Not with sorrow’s sting, but barren, as a field where seed was sown and never was Sun or rain a part.

Reflecting not the World, but inward depths where light is scarce and shadow cast unending gaze. Where all that hath been is but a tomb in which dreams lie buried, and the present fades before a rising flame.

Once, a temple strong and fair, now wanes, its pillars cracked, its arches bowed. The voice once rang clear falters and limbs that danced with youth now move with care. Yet in this fading frame, the spirit stirs, not to lament, but to seek a place where time is still, and thought no longer wars with hope.

Such be a cruel gift! That memory should endure while flesh decays, and time devours the bloom. Why must the mind retain what the heart cannot? Why must the soul recall the Spring as Winter dims the eye?

Parading as they come those thoughts, those inward guests to sit beside me in the quiet hours. They whisper, soft and slow, of days when strength was mine, and laughter light. Visions bold, the weight of years and care yet to come.

Each thought returning, cannot turn away. For in their gaze I lived, and loved, and strived. Though now, these monuments to battles fought and joys once tasted, bleed with tears.

Can I then curse them, as intruders vile? Or bless them, as the last companions true that walk with me when all the world is still?

That which let them stay also let memory unfold Its tapestry. Fruitless is its rule. For even that seed unseen, may be a promise yet fulfilled.

If my youth be all that now remains, let it be cherished, not as treasure lost, But as the fire that once did light my path. Though now it flickers, dim and near to ash, its glow still warms and bids me rise to the day, though strength be slow to come.

Venture would I dwell, if such a place there be, where soul may rest, and silence be a friend. Where distance, vast and void, may rest between the fire of recollection and the ice of illusion remaining faint and far away.

Ever fading youth art no curse to me, but a crown of days well spent, and proof of life. Though time may steal the vigor once mine, it cannot lift its weight from my soul.

Let the memories return, and stay to fill the silent hours. For in their coming, I am not alone and in their dwelling, I am not undone.

Yoked to silence, not with despair, but with a tempered grace. For as the body fades it seeks a peace beyond the reach of time and flesh, where thought and silence intertwine and memory plays a steady drum.