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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Written: March 05, 2025 *********************** As the final petal droops upon quivering leaves, while the soul begins to decay akin to the evening lights fading into a coffin. Tears flow quietly across vacant rooms, sheltered in the hidden retreat, of a hapless fool folly. Aged and forsaken, an ancient blade lies on a ragged oak table. All around the termite-ridden floorboards are strewn with tattered sheets of stories. Valiant voices of victory, vibrate in vivid verses, preserved with lively Ink. Decades of disarray have faded away, leaving behind a cherished tale, its inked revelations whirl into a frenzy, as I peer through the glass, reminiscing about those golden days when my youth overflowed with joy. I couldn't assist but notice the drooping scarlet dahlias. A gleaming golden crown, sparkling with lovely crimson queens rests upon the head of a forlorn exile— and that is all that remains. Under the relentless sun that preys upon the flames, how can I rise above the crimson chaos that encroaches at the edges, surrounding the ghostly grave of the poetic soul I have lost in the quest for acclaim. Within the weeping window, a wild wonder reveals itself, draped in a vivid shade of vermilion. Amid the whispers of wayward spirits, the flawless porcelain of our past now bears unsightly marks. Fractured dreams are embellished with delicate threads, while shafts of sunlight slices through shadowy skies. The family fortress, frozen in cold stone, waits for its wary wanderer, beckoning the illustrious to traverse its dimly paths. In the serene silence of slumber, the sorrowful saga emerges. The embrace of eternal sleep. A chilling chronicle of the collapse cascades in the corridors akin to a haunting harmony. The aspiration and avarice ultimately overwhelmed us As the clock chimed cheerfully at midnight on that chilling night, the cunning usurper brandished a blade and brutally broke their beings, birthing ghosts of grim, unspoken words to weep behind weathered walls. At this moment, I am the emerald evening of the early dawn, The waxen white wick that waits before their weathered tombstone is withered to a whisper.
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