The Dark Confluence

In the marrow of midnight, where the moon weeps silver tears, I wander halls of crumbling stone, where silence feeds on fears. The portraits bleed their faded eyes, watching as I pass— A ghost in velvet mourning, chained to shadows made of glass.

Beneath the yew that claws the sky, your grave exhales cold breath, A scent of withered lilies laced with promises of death. My fingers trace the lichen runes that spell your stolen name, And in the wind I hear you laugh—eternal, cruel, the same.

The candles gutter, spitting wax like blood upon the floor, While ravens chant forbidden hymns outside the bolted door. My heart, a rusted reliquary, beats its final toll, For love that died in satin sheets has claimed my weary soul.

Come, my darling, rise again in funeral lace and rot, Press your graveyard lips to mine—let paradise be not. We’ll dance among the funeral bells that toll for those who dare To love too deep in darkness, where the light can never tear.