Lina

Soft‑goth soul tracing poems through the dark.

Night wanderer with a camera,

collecting quiet ruins, streetlamp halos,

and the shadows that stay behind.

Smoke drifts like tired ghosts

over steel towers and silent pools.

The world hums in cold machinery,

and every shadow feels half‑alive.

Under the quiet branches,

she stands like a forgotten hymn—

soft bones, dark heart,

a girl stitched from dusk and silence.

Even the wind pauses,

afraid to disturb

the ghost of her gentle sorrow.

Beneath the rusted ribs of the earth,

the silence hums like a forgotten hymn.

Pipes whisper old secrets through the dark,

and every step echoes someone who never returned.

The town sleeps in broken windows,

its quiet stitched with dust and old echoes.

Every house keeps a bruise of moonlight,

soft goth bones beneath the night’s cold breath.

The house stands quiet beneath a bruised sky,

its walls stitched with old names and broken colors.

Every doorway hums with what used to be—

soft ghosts lingering in the paint,

waiting for night to carry them home.

rust clings to the bones of the night,

and the dark keeps its breath low—

every surface bruised, every silence feral,

a soft‑goth pulse in the wreckage,

waiting for something that never comes.

the tunnel keeps its secrets,

breathing dust and yesterday,

a quiet ache folded into brick and shadow.

some places never stop waiting—

they simply learn to mourn in silence.

Under the orange lamps,

the city exhales its quiet breath,

steel bones rising behind the silence,

holding the night like a secret.

Against the peeling blue wall, you fold into the quiet,

a silhouette stitched from midnight and worn concrete.

The world around you feels scraped thin,

as if every color forgot how to stay alive.

Yet in the hush between your breath and the cold floor,

there’s a softness—dark, fragile, almost holy—

the kind of silence that knows how to keep secrets.

Under the lone streetlamp’s tired glow,

the world unravels in rust and quiet ruin.

Smoke drifts like half‑forgotten prayers,

and every shadow clings to what it cannot keep.

Here, where the night feels bruised and breathing,

I stand inside the hush of something broken,

waiting for the dark to tell me why it stays.

Under the lone streetlamp, the night forgets its name.

Empty houses hold their breath; the road keeps its secrets close.

Shadows lean long across the pavement, waiting for footsteps that never come.

And in the quiet, where the darkness owns the hour,

the light burns like a small, stubborn ghost that refuses to leave.

Under the lone streetlamp, the night forgets its color—

shadows gather like old stories no one tells anymore.

The houses hold their breath,

windows dim as tired eyes,

and every empty road feels like a question

the darkness already answered.