Beneath a cerulean cloak, with breath befitting ghosts,
Lies a realm guarded by whispers—truths not be told nor beheld.
Etched upon the invisible waltz of tenebrous luminescence,
Are silhouettes of echoes, the music of tender flight.
Velvet light, cascading through curtains of astral winds,
Whispers the tales of marigold felines wandering lost souls.
These truths come not from golden tomes, but from
Lonesome serenades of yesteryear’s gardens, soiled yet divine.
Hark and listen, for the symphony of lingering enchantment
Threads through these haunted halls where silence serenades the soul.
Let it unveil mysteries held by gossamer strands of time,
And resist not the ephemeral embrace of forgotten truths.