The Wake

The shadow moon shivers, draped in silence,

As night embraces the breath of gloom,
And the waking dirge rumbles in the distance,
An echo resonates in the abyssal tomb.

Time traces a path, untouched, unseen,

Over the molten mirror of memory's lake,
The clock strikes midnight, painted in velveteen,
And the specters stir in the haunted wake.

Under the hushed tapestry of the cosmic dome,

Through the twisted groves of the psyche's shade,
Weave the whispers of ephemeral gloam,
Where the souls of the lost serenade.

Waning stars flicker, weave, and waver,

In the stygian song of the universe's refrain,
The void gazes back, a silent observer,
Of the cosmic waltz in the spectral plane.

An echo ripples through the veils of the night,

In the dread silence that the echoes make,
A sob, a sigh, a spectral flight,
Caught adrift in the ghostly wake.

Through the eye of the dreamer, stark and hollow,

Glance the ghosts of regret, of dread, of yore,
Their footprints drenched in the shadows they follow,
Upon the sands of the forgotten shore.

Dusk's pallor, scribed on the canvas of dread,

In the crepuscular glow of the languishing light,
And the world mourns, draped in a shroud of the dead,
In the sullen silence of the timeless night.

A thousand eyes, dark as the heart of winter,

Watch from the void where no light dare stake,
And the world turns, broken, bitter,
In the sorrow of the never-ending wake.