Woven with secretions of midnights veil,
Its fur absorbs full moons light now stale.
Through its piercing eyes that follow shifting
shades, daring to attain its glare precariously drifting.

Abiding its time as night decays, fractured sights
let in the breath of inclement silence, coldness bites.
whispering through halls, but shuddering when
this onyx mystery speaks, winds shudder becoming thin.

This place is a citadel of muteness, where one
voice to be only spoken, it never gestures than
with some intent, but wears many facades
changing its outfits, ever enjoying its odds.

For what is life without a challenge, its master
returns, those whose thought he was the caster
when spoken through a ventriloquist of self
as who holds the blame not her, but himself.