When Night Whispers Grief
In sable night, where grief leans close to creep,
My maiden stands—her cheek like alabaster cold;
No blush of love, but scorn that cuts too deep,
Where phantom breezes whisper low and frail.
Let wind unbind its sighs from crypt and thorn,
Let stars burn cold through mist and shadow spread;
Their light shall guide where mourning dreams are born,
In realms where living and dead are wed.
The moon hangs pale—a skull above the lea,
Let thy form sway in waves of murky calm;
No gentle rest shall come to thee or me,
Till we are wrapped in darkness’ cold palm.
For night doth hold what day hath dared to hide—
In tombs of stone, where grief and secrets bide…🌘✨© LanZhan 01062026
L