In the dead of night, when the moon hangs low,
The shadows stir, and secrets start to flow.
They creep along the walls, like a spectral wrath,
Their icy fingers tracing forgotten paths.
The clock chimes midnight, a mournful toll,
And the air grows thick with a nameless dread.
The floorboards creak, as if in agony,
And the darkness weaves its malevolent thread.
Beware the mirror, for it holds no truth,
Reflecting fractured souls and twisted youth.
Your own eyes stare back, empty and cold,
Their depths concealing stories left untold.
The wind outside howls like a tormented soul,
Branches scrape the window, seeking entry.
Is it the wind, or something more sinister,
That whispers secrets of forgotten memory?
The portrait on the wall, an ancient cursr,
Its eyes follow you, unblinking, accusatory.
Who was this person, lost to time's cruel grasp?
What sins lie hidden in that painted face?
The floor beneath your feet gives way,
And you descend into a dark abyss.
The walls close in, damp and suffocating,
As if the very earth conspires against you.
The rats run, their eyes aglow,
Feasting on decay, eating at your sanity.
Their tiny claws scratch at your skin,
And you wonder if this is hell's cruel parody.
In the corner, a cobwebbed mirror stands,
Its glass warped, distorting reality.
You glimpse your reflection, but it's not you,
A twisted version, a mockery of humanity.
The whispers grow louder, a cacophony,
Urging you to remember, to confront your sins.
But the memories are shards, sharp and elusive,
And you bleed as you piece them together.
The room tightens its grip, a vise of despair,
And you sink into the cold, unforgiving floor.
The shadows dance, mocking your futile struggle,
As you become one with the darkness forevermore.
YOU ARE READING
Wishes and Poems
PoetryA collection of short poems written by me, might contain some Hungarian ones as well.
