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.
"The night whispered no threats, the wind carried no malice—yet I was warned to fear them. But the coldest touch I ever knew was never the winter air, but the world’s quiet, creeping dread."
