The Biltmore looms,
Stuck in a moment of opal stillness,
Serenading the wind,
Memories of another time, frozen in the October humidity,
Melancholy shades wandering its corridors in silence,
Its Moorish tower standing ageless, in the billowing emptiness,
Biltmore's orange prism,
Pristine pure in the roar of sylvan centuries,
Its voices frozen in echoing stillness,
The golden lintels fade,
Yet their mystery faces smile across the verdant palms,
Hiding secrets, that drift like faint whispers from dark empty rooms,
Across the meadow mists to merge with the rising Moon.
