Some poetry I made

Beneath the pale and withering moon,

I wander through corridors of forgotten stone.

The air is thick with the dust of memory,

each breath a communion with ghosts unseen.

The candles bleed their wax like sorrow,

dripping prayers upon the floor,

and in the mirror’s fractured face

I see a thousand versions of my decay.

Yet still I reach for silence’s hand,

for in the darkness I am not alone—

the shadows cling like faithful lovers,

whispering truths the daylight fears.