Short Story of a Room

Dark coarse threads fall softly from a black curtain;
Slowly the fabric loosens and drifts through a windless air to lie upon the oaken floor.
The only light that illuminates the room emanates from a stained crème taper which sits solitary upon a study; 
The smoke wafts gently upwards staining the ceiling with its expulsion.
Delicately a gentle scent can be observed surrounding the area reminiscent of scotch/whisky.
Next to the table an ornate fainting couch lays quietly ever longing for a corseted companion; 
The edges tattered from years of neglect while its cushioned body is bathed in dust.
The room is melancholy, yet inviting, for those of a darker continence;
It is a haven for contemplation and thought.
While none occupy the room, one cannot help but notice the ghosts of people that may have once walked its floor.
A thoughtful poet sitting crouched over at his study pushing his soul into an old memoir; 
With each line fearful that the words might escape;
A lonely widow reclines upon the couch, dressed in faded feathers and dreaming of her lost youth;
Her thoughts which will never be shared by another.
The room is timeless; the only change occurring is from a layer of dust that falls like snow when disturbed;
Though, even the dust has seemed to of abandoned its gentle onslaught.
I pray this room will always be here, since there are too few wonders left in our world.
May it never see the light of day as I hold it steadfast within my mind.