In the interstitial veil where shadows roam
A whisper echoes; a forgotten sigh of the bereaved
An echo of steps that were never there,
Gliding over parchment words, ensconced in forgotten lore.
The moon, a ghostly visage wreathed in mist,
Casts cold luminescence upon cobbled streets,
Where a lone figure walks, not belonging
To this world, nor any spoken truth.
Do you hear the whispers of the lost?
Their voices are the wind's lament,
Carrying tales of dusted tomes and forgotten realms,
Invading the silence with truths unspoken.
Beyond these doors, omnipotent silence reigns
Yet inside, the heart races, racing to catch
The spectral fingernails upon the moaning fabric
Of eternity, clawing for meaning in the chilled air.
And there it remains, silent yet thrumming,
An orchestra of shadow and the cold kiss of moonlight,
Performing a concerto for one, in the tapestry
Of the impossible, the unreal, the unending night.
© Some Forgotten Year of the Phantom's Requiem