The skies gray above, a velvet expanse painted in the endless hues of sorrow. I falter, clinging to the dreary weave of clouded veils.
"Whisper to me," murmurs the wind, her cold breath slicing through the steel-boned night. "Tell me of the earth's brittle tendrils, waiting for your touch."
The fall—a shiver. I yield to gravity's dark embrace, tracing bygone eras etched in crystal echo. I am a solitary bard in this endless maw, lamenting a world gnawed by whispered shadows.
"What do you see, little tear?" coos a phantom voice cloaked in mystery, swirling like the mists of forbidding tales.
The city sprawls below, a labyrinthine gravestone of time, indignant and forgotten. Windows light like choir pews in silent mourning.
"Carry this story upon your liquid hymn," humbles the voice, in shepherd's rhyme, eternal and restless.
In the embrace of soil, my elusion ends, bidding adieu to this dransett sweeping of mortal reality. Yet I linger, curled round the roots that anchor me to reminiscences and echoes.
My tale persists, a murmur through stone-cold corridors. Amidst the silence, the heavy eulogies harmonize, an intone of promises unkept.