Echoes of the Old

In decay's embrace, the crows assemble,
upon the crumbling edifice of time's folly.
The moon, a pale witness, shuns the glow of day,
while shadows dance in morbid jubilation.

"Remember when the clock struck thirteen? Petals fell from the inverted roses, and silence was but a symphony."

Underneath the skeletal trees,
the pond reflects not water, but whispers.
Every ripple a memory, every echo a lament,
for dreams once dreamt within its depths.

"The owl reads from ancient tomes, its wisdom verbose in the owlish tongue, a language lost to humanity's haste."

Did you hear that? The bells toll, but not for the living.
Their chime—a strange lullaby to the dance of the forgotten.

Faint Truths in the Murmurs | Restless Hours | Silenced Echoes