The Widow's Keep

In a vale where sun dares not to tread,
A crooked keep looms overhead,
Its stones are slick with mourning’s breath,
A cradle fit for ghosts and death.

The ivy climbs like grasping hands,
Upon the walls where silence stands.
Each window stares—a hollow eye—
That watched the world, then chose to die.

A lantern swings from iron beam,
Its flame a frail and flickering dream.
It whispers tales in soot and smoke,
Of vows once sworn and gently broke.

She walks the halls in widow’s thread,
A veil of black, a crown of dread.
Her fingers trail the ashen stone,
A queen of loss, enthroned alone.

They say she waits, though time is thin,
For love to rise, reborn again.
But in her gaze the stars have fled—
She dances only with the dead.

So pass the keep with quiet tread,
Lest you wake the bride of dread.
For those who speak her name aloud,
Are kissed by night and wrapped in shroud.