Hushed tales spin their webs around the lonely candle's flame
Echoes of throbbing silence;
a relic beneath fabric sodden with nightshade dew.
Whispers combust their symbiotic roots,
Intertwined between whispers and sighs,
Unveiling a dance of spectral binds,
A prayer poured into ink and misaligned breaths.
In the heart of the moor,
Where the shadows lay their midnight pasture,
The echo lingers, lingering, straining
For curious souls taste the prose labored by time itself.