Upon the velvet shroud of night, where silvered shadows weep,
I wander through the hollow halls where silent memories sleep.
The air is thick with lavender and dust of ancient lace,
And everywhere the phantom touch of your vanished, marble face.
Oh, cruel and gilded agony! To love a thing that dies,
To see the light of heavens fade within those starlit eyes.
For beauty is a fleeting breath, a rose upon the pyre,
Consuming all the mortal heart in soul-consuming fire.
The raven wings of midnight beat against the shuttered pane,
A rhythmic, cold reminder of the salt and falling rain.
But in this gloom, a tapestry of ache is finely spun,
More radiant than the burning glare of any living sun.
For love is never half so fair as when it’s lost to deep,
In sepulchers of ebony where lonely spirits keep.
The grave may claim the beating pulse, the bone, and golden hair,
But it cannot touch the holy ghost of all that we held there.
So let the bells of iron toll, let winter freeze the vein,
There is a nectar found in grief, a majesty in pain.
I’ll wed the dark and kiss the shroud until my days are through,
For death has made a timeless queen of the ghost I found in you.
KiddMysticc
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 1:34 PM UTC
Upon the velvet shroud of night, where silvered shadows weep,
I wander through the hollow halls where silent memories sleep.
The air is thick with lavender and dust of ancient lace,
And everywhere the phantom touch of your vanished, marble face.
Oh, cruel and gilded agony! To love a thing that dies,
To see the light of heavens fade within those starlit eyes.
For beauty is a fleeting breath, a rose upon the pyre,
Consuming all the mortal heart in soul-consuming fire.
The raven wings of midnight beat against the shuttered pane,
A rhythmic, cold reminder of the salt and falling rain.
But in this gloom, a tapestry of ache is finely spun,
More radiant than the burning glare of any living sun.
For love is never half so fair as when it’s lost to deep,
In sepulchers of ebony where lonely spirits keep.
The grave may claim the beating pulse, the bone, and golden hair,
But it cannot touch the holy ghost of all that we held there.
So let the bells of iron toll, let winter freeze the vein,
There is a nectar found in grief, a majesty in pain.
I’ll wed the dark and kiss the shroud until my days are through,
For death has made a timeless queen of the ghost I found in you.
KiddMysticc