Velvet walls press, breathless, suffocating, Ink drips, tears unwept, pages torn between fragile fingers, A ghost, unmade, Cold sky, shuttered stars, Silence like a blade against the throat. Fractured glass mirrors Reflect shards too sharp for skin, Hope? A stranger who never came, Ash settles, thick Royal robes turned to dust.

Dust-veiled portraits stare, Eyes lacquered in silence, The corridors remember, Laughter like rust, Keys turned in locks that never opened. A thousand clocks tick, But never chime, Heritage stitched in ivory thread, Across flesh that does not heal. Tea spoons shake, Not from fear, But recognition.

Velvet gloves, bloodied palms, Murmurs through parlour walls, Minds fracture under crystal light, Champagne flutes shatter with every grin. Cigars conceal secrets, And smoke, A more honest language. Desire wears a monocle, Inspects the soul for flaws, And finds nothing but Gold-foiled madness.

Darkness quivers, edges aflame, Fingers grasping at smoke-thin sparks, Music spills, rough fire licking cracked walls, A pulse, brittle and burning. Riddles whispered in half-light, Tongues forgotten, Promises hanging, suspended, In the hush before dawn’s reluctant breath. A spark smolders beneath ruin, Fragile as a lover’s sigh.

A cradle unrocked, A name never whispered, The nursery wallpaper peels, Like memories too burdened to bloom. Midnight oil and inheritance Burn together, Footsteps echo in ancestral guilt. He never cried, But the manor still listens, Each silence heavier Than his breathless birth.

Rain, Neon bleeding through the night’s thin skin, Silence hums like a dirge, Voices dissolve, smoke rising, Wet stone, broken glass underfoot. Velvet clings, suffocating, soft, Ash shrouds the unknown, A worn manuscript, Words half-faded, half-remembered, Ink bleeding secrets in a tongue no one speaks. Light fractures, Shadow devours, The dance begins again.

The wallpaper had eyes, Blue, distant, damp with watching, It stared through candlelight At wrists too thin to hide What the mind could no longer dress. Breakfast cold, Servants absent, Only the ticking left, And the breathing that wasn’t yours. Mirrors recoiled, As if afraid you’d speak.

They weep through stained glass, Martyrs we carved ourselves To justify the rot. Holy books locked in drawers, Unread and crumbling, Beside bottles of laudanum and rage. Prayer tastes like copper, And confession is a form of seduction We no longer refuse. Every candle is a liar, Every shadow, A truth we’d rather forget.

Mask cracks, aristocracy’s brittle shell, Night folds close, tender, cruel, cold, Cigarette smoke curls Maps of desire burned in air, Regret whispered on the wind. Unrest drips like honey, Sweet poison, Silence thick with fractured promises, Self flickers, flame and ash, Consuming, illuminating.

The wine, Poured for ghosts who declined in silence, Each chair draped in silk, Each course untouched but bleeding. He sat upright, Eyes hollowed with civility, Knife in hand, Not for food But memory. Even the chandelier trembled, Crystals weeping.

Ash rises from the hearth, Letters charred, ink blurred, Words swallowed by flame, A confession lost To smoke and time. Pages curl, Secrets turn to dust, And the silence grows louder, Filling empty rooms With forgotten names.

Crimson tides rise, Blood stains old stone walls, Shadows bleed deeper, Secrets whispered between the cracks, Ancestral curses awaken. Night blooms, With petals sharp as blades, The past claws through the present, Echoes of what should never be spoken, A heart beating in haunted silence.

Footsteps echo, Silent as a secret kept, Shadows flicker in candlelight, Faces blurred, Stories folded into the dust. A sigh lingers, Between breaths and time, The house remembers, And waits, For voices never to return.