In the whispering corridors of bleakness, long shadows slither beneath the cowl of a solemn veil. Here the dawn condescends to return, an ethereal specter in the wake of tremulous nights. Memories decay, like yellowed letters in forgotten attics.
Across the skeletal woods stands the relic of hollow lanterns -- sentinels of what came before. Inked in deepest ivory, marbled with danse macabre patterns, the horizon wails.
Entropy drips from the ceiling like a poet's forgotten muse. Its plunge embodies an aristocratic solitude. Worm-riddled muse hummed tales to those laying nestled in earthen folds, beneath sightless stones and teardrop pews, eternally listless.
The clocktower's quivering gaze meets the tender symmetry of dust-laden books. They whisper we were and we shall be yet the tomorrows will never yield to them the sun.
Laments flickering, storm's lament yields no benediction or otherwordly revocation. Glimpses through glassy eyes ornate labyrinths unknown to mortal threads whisper woeful motives untold. The day's allegiance to the night's gentle caress etches umbral crossroads, metaphysical gates.