Even the dead tell stories

From their things,

From the left behind memories,

In shadows where silence clings.

Whispers crawl through dusty halls,

Echoes drip from crumbling walls,

Fingers trace where laughter died,

In the seams where time has cried.

The rusted key beneath the floor,

Opens the door to dark folklore,

Each trinket holds a ghostly gaze,

In forgotten, haunted labyrinths' maze.

Their unspent breath hangs in the air,

Like haunting notes of a lost prayer.

In the attic, dolls with porcelain smiles,

Hold secrets wrapped in filigree wiles.

Beneath the slumber of the soil,

Lies the weight of lost toil,

Unearthed tales of love and pain,

And lovers’ promises, now in vain.

Each grave a chapter, closed and sealed,

With stories of wounds that would not heal.

So listen close as night descends,

For the dead’s lament never truly ends.

In the flicker of a candle's light,

They dance in shadows, taking flight,

From relics and ruins of yesteryear,

Their soft, weeping voices draw near.

Even the dead tell stories, it’s true,

In the silence, they whisper to you.

So heed their plight in the still of the night,

For the tales of the dead are forever in sight.