The stones of the abbey, cold and still.
A shrouded shadow moves, unseen, unheard.
Holding secrets deep, upon a lonely hill.
Where once the holy, now the lost are stirred.
The bells are silent, their song forever done.
Where peace is broken, and no rest is found.
No mournful echo ‘neath the setting sun.
The graves lie silent, in the hallowed ground.
The chapel’s empty, its stories left untold.
The moon, a sliver, casts a silver light.
On broken flagstones, in the dead of night.
Sterile beauty, barren, stark, and cold.
A whisper lingers, of vows and chanted prayer.
The roofless cloisters, soaked in bitter rain.
Replaced by rustling, and a monk’s despair.
Wash down the gargoyles, twisted by the pain.
Deep in the catacombs, a secret lies.
His penance carved, a life he couldn’t save.
A fatal rite, beneath the watchful skies.
The abbot walks, a spectral shade.
He sees the symbols, ink that darkly bleeds.
When stars begin to fall, and darkness reigns.
He hears the darkness answer, to his pains.
And feels a chill, fulfilling ancient needs.
The verse is whispered, a pact with ancient dread.
And with each passing wind, the abbey mourns its dead.
hello dearest Adagio I can feel the dreaded chill great write ❤️
Thank you, Brenda.