Through the veil of dusk, murmurs linger like forlorn phantoms.
A descent into the corridors where echoes weave forgotten tales
of knightly oaths and sorrows unspoken.
Herein lies a fragment, ancient as the forgotten tombstones outside.
To follow the sound is to uncover a garden—a graveyard of vibrant hues
sown by seeds of a sorrowful melody.
In the shadows of the old library, a coverless tome seeks eyes
to unearth its inked mysteries, lingering write stars seeking
the scrivener's touch to move its pallid parchment from fallow peace.
Winds carry the scent of sea and bloodletting acrimony, brushed soft
upon the whispered dares of sanctuary-weaned souls.
From ashes of congregated nightmares arise tales:
of daggered solitude and candle lit vigils, where charity forfeits and
dreams go to falter. Once hungover from solace, you awaken
to a lingering familiarity, an embrace of spectral kin beneath
the ancient hall of muted cries.