Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel, Canada — The Bride And The Bellman
by Dawg
High in the Rockies, beneath firs that pierce the sky’s cold vein,
stands Banff’s stone palace, shrouded in mist and permanent rain.
Inside, the air bends with rumors–stories sharpened on the teeth of wind,
a place where lost love festers and every shadow is thick-skinned.
Red carpet hallways echo with shoes that never quite touch the ground,
glass chandeliers flicker with whispers, crystal tears without sound.
The ballroom, emptied of laughter, glistens with frost and regret,
a thousand memories stuck mid-dance, a bride in a gown still wet.
Her gown is spun from mourning, silk stitched with cold and longing,
each lace-edged step a monument to the vows the dead keep prolonging.
She floats the staircase, hands never reaching for rail or ring,
eyes hungry for what was promised–some happiness, or anything.
The bellman lingers by the lifts, his cap pristine, smile worn thin,
always polite, unseen by the living, always wishing someone would check in.
He glides with a tray of nothing, his gloved hand waving through air,
opening doors for the vanished, never moving from his post or his prayer.
Mirrors in every corridor refuse to play along,
instead reflecting shapes that shouldn’t be there–echoes, faceless and wrong.
The bridal suite glows faintly blue, its air so heavy and dry,
a veil floats near the window where hope was meant to fly.
Under the chandeliers, bellman and bride entwine in a dance,
spinning through the centuries, never giving real life a chance.
He tips his hat with an echo, she gathers the train of her woe,
bound by a silence no priest can break, no bell can overthrow.
Outside, the mountains watch–silent, impassive, immense,
holding secrets in their granite hearts, unmoved by human suspense.
Each midnight, shadows deepen, the veil between worlds grows thin,
bride and bellman still reaching for the living, and each other,
never knowing if the sun will ever let them in.