In the Hollow of Midnight

The raven sky bleeds ink across the spire,

A withered hymn drifts faintly through the stones,

Candles gutter, gasping out their fire,

While echoes stir the marrow of old bones.

The roses choke upon their tangled breath,

Petals blacken, kissed by frost’s embrace;

The garden kneels before its patient death,

Shadows etch their scripture on the face.

A clock tolls on, though time itself has drowned,

Its silver tongue was bewitched by endless grief;

Yet in the silence, something still resounds—

A whispered vow, a ghost of brief belief.

So let the night entomb the light of day,

For beauty blooms where all must rot away.