The raven croaks its tales in the echo of broken clocks,
and the wind whispers unsung songs through the hollow halls
of forgotten cathedrals.
In this domain, time unravels like the
tattered fabric of night, spilling shadows across pale stone.
Beneath the chandelier of ghostly lit moonbeams, the
dancers—spectres of a melancholic waltz—move in endless circles,
eclipsed by their own eternity.
Every footfall imprints the dust
of despair, a symphony of silence unheard by those trapped in
its charm.
A lone organ pipes its dirge, a cacophony of unsung songs
played at the witching hour, ringing through chambers of
dim-lit desire.
Let the echoes of forgotten yesterdays pervade
your dreams, as time's cruel guillotine severs the threads of now.