Echoes in Static Script
Moonlight will find her… if it deciphers the mark on her palm.
No—darkness doesn’t lock. It hides the key in a place she can’t name.
Hope floats like a whisper encoded in static—only the broken hear it.
Past soaks her in ink etched in a script she half-remembers… was it hers?.
Roses’ thorns? They’re pins marking a map that leads nowhere and everywhere.
Mourning ravens trace the sky with a word that dies the second it forms.
Night is viper—its eyes hold a riddle written in ash, blown away when you stare.
Clinging to an embrace that shifts when she blinks… was that a hand, or a shadow?.
Happiness? A phantom letter in a language she never learned—yet she knows the sound
How pitiful? Or is she the one who carved the dark's secret into its own bones?
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