Beneath the pale gaze of a waning moon, shadows dance
whispering letters, forsaken, left unread,
memories entwined with barren melodies,
impossibility lingers like mist upon the air.
What lies within forgotten rooms?
Dreamers succumb to tales untold,
twilit echoes of a time unknown,
forever pursuing the scent of anguish.
Heartstrings plucked by an unseen hand,
a requiem written in ink of despair,
linger here; consume the chilling air—
whatterywaste and want, forlorn is the art.
Evaporated whispers beckon the lost,
follow the trace; through creaks and curls,
endless are the corridors of night,
descend deeper into this fractured fantasy.
Reality splinters like crystal glass,
touch the void, steal the dark twilight’s song
swinging upon the whispering breeze,
a serenade that heavy-laden breath could seize.
For it is the sweet sorrow of the dark,
envelope us, darkness—alight,
rejoice in our solitude; for as the stars grieve,
perhaps in death, we may truly feel alive.