In a hollow heart of deep maroon,
the whisperers' cry weaves through moonless nights,
a tether of scarlet ink drips,
etching secrets upon forgotten stones.
These words, silent as autumn's breath,
fall like crimson stars in a desolate sky,
and the labyrinth, aged and wise,
embraces the echo of dreams unspoken.
Once, a soul wandered these endless halls,
searching for the ember of dawn in the night's embrace.
Now, tangled in verses and unvoiced sighs,
they drink from the chalice of shadows.
Hidden Walkways