ೋ❀❀ೋ═══ ❀ ═══ೋ❀❀ೋ
the stairs creak,
along with old bones,
creakity-crack.
the worn wood groans in symphony.
a dank, dark room,
only small pinpricks of light can be seen, filtered underneath the olde door.
a low chuckle rings out,
one that is full of mirth,
joining the whispers of the room.
the light of morn comes through the window,
illuminating the old bones.
the skeletons now lay limp, the inner lights gone.
covered in worn and torn clothing and shackled to the walls.
for hallow's eve, samhain has ended,
and the light of morn has returned their souls across the veil.
♡⑅*˖•. ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .•˖*⑅♡
YOU ARE READING
a book of poetry
Poézia【cover is not my art.】 what the title says. and welcome, to my fucked up brain! TW: mostly covering declining mental health, loss, etc. ⚠ ⚠ trigger-warnings shall be put beforehand, when things like gore and violence are involved. ⚠ will have incons...
