Shadows flicker, born of old,
A story whispered, often told
By trembling hands, a hollow gaze,
Lost in a past’s perpetual haze.
The craving claws, a restless guest,
Whispering false and fleeting rest.
A bitter comfort, sweet decay,
Stealing fragments of today.
No peace allowed, no quiet grace,
Just ghosts that haunt this troubled space.
Leave a comment