The sky is ink, and bleeds its hue

Across the hills in shades of blue.

It cloaks the trees in mourning lace,

And smears the stars on Heaven’s face.

The wind becomes a painter’s sigh,

Brushing the world with something shy.

It stirs the leaves like whispered sin,

And taps on glass to be let in.

The manor breathes a deeper gloom,

It’s heart a cold, forgotten room.

The portraits blink with shadowed eyes,

And creak with thoughts they can’t disguise.

Graveyard roses bloom with pride-

They only open when stars hide.

Their petals drip with scent so sweet,

The dead reach up to kiss their feet.

A fox moves like a shade reborn,

It’s eyes twin lanterns, sharp with scorn.

The night gives voice to hidden things-

To rustled gates and bat-swept wings.

This is the hour the veils grow thin,

When dusk invites the dark within.

The worl, unmaszked, becomes more true

-

And shows its face, not meant for you.