No living soul dares venture near, this fortress built of doubt and fear. The gargoyles weep, a silent dread, for the pale ghost, within it, dead.
A tapestry of cobwebbed dreams, where fractured moonlight faintly gleams. Upon a throne of bone I sit, a monarch crowned by what I quit.
The ravens call, a somber choir, their voices rise, then fade, expire. A macabre dance, the dust motes spin, a lonely waltz, where life has been.
And in the depths, a chilling sound, the turning earth, in endless round. A cosmic ache, a silent scream, the universe, a lonely dream.
Is there an end to this despair? A light to pierce the stagnant air? Or am I bound, forevermore, to haunt this self, and bolted door?
