She stands like a tree in autumn’s embrace, Golden leaves falling, shattered in grace.
Each broken piece catches the light, A quiet beauty, fragile but bright.

Yet weren’t they lovelier when they were whole? Before the cold air whispered its toll?
A breath of frost, sharp and unkind, The ghost of her past still trailing behind.

The river hums with a story untold, Its waters deep, relentless, cold.
It sings of wounds she hides so well, A silent storm, a private hell.

She has friends, or so she claims, Yet loneliness calls her by name.
Her silence lingers, soft but strong, Like autumn days, both short and long.

But when the river’s wind takes flight, Rustling leaves in the dead of night, Her soul, so quiet, starts to scream— A soundless echo, lost in a dream.

She was never meant for autumn’s sorrow, She was meant for spring, for a brighter tomorrow.

Trapped in a coffin, breathing but bound, A love so toxic, its whispers profound.
The walls close in, suffocating tight, Every glance from him, a blinding light.

The pain is constant, a wound never healed, Yet the thought of leaving feels unreal.
For in this prison, a twisted comfort stays, A strange familiarity in the darkest of days.

I break, I heal, I rise, then fall, But each time, he calls, I return to it all.
Like a puppet, my strings pulled with ease, Back in the coffin, suffocating with pleas.

Each time I leave, the wounds start to fade, But he comes with words, sweetly laid.
A manipulative dance, I’m drawn back in, To a cycle of lies, where do I begin?

I gave him the version he never had, Every piece of me, broken and sad.
Yet, when I try to escape, to be whole, He drags me back, swallowing my soul.

Each return is a death, another goodbye, I die a thousand times just to keep love alive.
I **** the parts of me that want to be free, All for a love that was never meant to be.

I don't know how many times I'll fall, How many times I'll answer his call.
I fear the damages, the healing I must face, But I fear his absence even more in this place.

The night was veiled in silken mist, where moonlight bled like lips once kissed.
A ghostly pearl in shadows spun, a silent watcher, pale and numb.

Through the fog, its whispers weaved, a silver hymn the dark conceived.
Soft as sorrow, cold as sin, it traced the earth, yet breathed within.

The wind, a phantom, slow and white, brushed through bones with cruel delight. A porcelain touch—so light, so thin, yet laced with whispers luring in.

And in the woods of emerald deep, where darkness curled and secrets sleep, the trees stood still, their voices low, like specters carved in velvet woe.

A night of beauty, sharp as blades, where moonlight kissed, yet love decayed.
For all that haunts, for all that calls, is both the lure—and the fall.

But never did I know, beneath the glow,
If this night, so haunting, was friend or foe.
For in the world, the darkest things,
Are not the night, but what mankind brings.

I never felt the vampire's breath,
Nor the chill of its icy death.
For all that haunts and pulls you near,
Is not the beauty, but the fear.