Drenched in shadow, herald of soft despair, I descend.
My form fragile, skimming the surface of what none see: the lace grim on window panes.
A world woven tight in whispers, where footsteps traverse primal echoes,
and moons hang, wrought silver ripples in tarnished web.
They say, speak thus, in tongues of forgotten storms.
One whispers its tale beneath night-echo's symphony,
a murmur gleaned from past shivers
- a fleeting flame
quenched not yet by my kiss.
In the twilight abyss, my journey intertwines,
golden-hued embers of silent screams covering paths,
proving ephemeral and intensely profound.
Should I anchor to this truth or cling unto void's charm?