In twilight’s hush, where shadows stretch their claws, the earth exhales its slow, sepulchral breath—a sigh that coils like smoke through rotting straws.
Hymns to blossoms wedded long to death. The orchids slump, their necks by silence bent. Of petals pressed to pallid skin, or fingers knotted where the mourners went, to bury what the moon could not rescind.
With roots of ropes that strangle sunken thrones, where spiders spin their webs from hollowed bones.
Every breath laced with attic rust. The wind, a widow, keens her hollow tune, her voice the scrape of nails, while moonlight pours its mercury too soon to drown the roots that hunger to be fed.
dark hunger I love it 💕 so eloquently written…
Think you kindly, Brenda.