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Poem

Under the weight of a dying world,
Where stars once whispered secrets into the night's shadow,
Now, from the cracks between the realms of yesterday and tomorrow,
Monsters breathe, their shadows dancing in the dusk's mist.
The moon, a silent sentinel above the whispers of ancient stones,
Watches as cities crumble, swallowed by the earth,
Their memories like phantom breaths remaining
In the cold, indifferent vaults of history's memory.
The heartbeats of the night are a melody of lost days,
Where forgotten hands rummage, seeking echoes
Of dreams once kept in letters never sent,
Whispers tangled in the uncharted corners of the soul.
In the cradle of the forest, where trees stand as old sentinels,
The roots, like ancient fingers, grasp the dark veins of sorrow,
A temple of shadows where the earth sings
To the buried remnants of broken dreams.
We live in a world that decomposes, a chorus of fractured notes,
Awaiting the birth of dawn from the cold womb of stardust,
While monsters waltz under the gaze of a blind sun,
And we are mere echoes in their haunting dance.
But, among the ashes where hope dares to bloom,
A mysterious flower rises, nourished by the remnants of forgotten legends,
Each petal a testament to stories scorched by time,
Awaiting a new beginning on the white pages of dawn.
From the silent cry of the emerging new day,
The spirit of the earth begins anew,
Weaving stories once more on the fabric of existence,
In the quiet song of mornings yet to rise.

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