The ink was blood, the page was bone,
She wrote her tale by grave alone.
No stars above, no breath of breeze—
Just whispers crawling through the trees.
The house stood crooked, lost in time,
Its halls were thick with ash and grime.
Each mirror cracked with silent screams,
Each room a vault of shattered dreams.
He loved her once in days now dead,
Before the curse, before he bled.
She wore her grief like silken lace,
And stitched his name across her face.
The tale she wrote could never end—
For death, she said, is not the end.
He walks with her in veil and frost,
A phantom bound to all she lost.
The final line she dared not write—
It waits, it breathes, it dreams at night.
And if you read this far, take care…
The tale still watches from the stair.
4.4.2025