The midnight air, a shroud of silence,
wraps the city in its hold.
The moon, a widow draped in sorrow,
casts her grief in light so cold.
The alleys stretch like endless fingers,
clawing at the past I’ve known.
Each footstep rings through hollow tunnels,
soft as whispers carved in stone.
A raven’s cry—a thread unraveling,
woven through the frozen gloom.
Its voice, like laughter lost and broken,
shakes the stillness of the tomb.
The lamplights burn like dying candles,
flickering between the veils.
Their trembling glow, a ghostly warning,
breathes in rhythms worn and frail.
The echoes twist like withered branches,
scraping softly through the night.
A voice within them mournful glances,
weaving sorrow, pale and light.
A name drifts past—so faint, so fleeting,
soft as dust in winter’s breath.
It calls me back to faded doorways,
aching still from love and death.
Reflections bloom in pools of midnight,
faces form and fade again.
Their hollow eyes, like distant lanterns,
beckon where the past remains.
The mist moves slow, like hands of lovers,
pulling gently, cold and deep.
It winds around my breath, my heartbeat,
whispering secrets I must keep.
And there he stands—a shape, a shadow,
wrapped in silence, draped in black.
His fingers stretch like silent questions,
reaching out—but pulling back.
The dawn arrives, a thief of secrets,
stealing night’s forbidden dreams.
But in the wind, his voice still lingers,
stitched in whispers, stitched in screams.