Perforated with undertones of faded atmosphere
of a time now past. The walls were echoes of festering
residual voice that never died just staining the drapes
that hang in tatters of the dismal walls.

"We are the flowers buried in a garden of emptiness,

She sits there in a empty room, vacantly staring at
an unoccupied picture frame. She is laughing at
nothing but the tears that are falling from her wrists,
the stone tastes every speck of life and hungers for more.

"Hear the murmurs that speak from closed mouths,

This is a repetition of all that lingers in this place, for
when day breaks there is just stains of stories that never
show themselves in the light of day. When night gifts
this empty place the souls of lingering light the windows.

"Walls hold the breath that never escaped there mouths,

Smirking from the window a figure gifts views of what
seems like happiness whispering on the window pane.
So tired of the supressed motions that lingers here,
A gentle breeze ushers the swinging of the hangman here.

"Never conveying words he just took the first step into nothingness,

A castle of forgotten memories that tear upon the surroundings
when light fades into whispers. Memories keep each other
tormented feeding each other in entombed fears.
This citadel has empty picture frames that tell stories unseen.