There’s a garden in the dark where only shadows bloom,

Petals black as mourning, fed by whispers in the gloom.

No sun has ever kissed it, no rain has graced its soil,

Yet roots twist deep in silence, where forgotten secrets coil.

I found it on a night when the moon had turned away,

Its air was thick with quiet screams that dared not see the day.

The stems, they stretched in stillness, toward no light at all,

Their blossoms drank the echoes of a voice that used to call.

I knelt to touch the petals, soft as ghosts and cold as sin,

But every breath I took outside, the garden pulled within.

I felt the weight of eyes unseen, beneath the shadowed trees,

A presence rooted in the dark, with voices like a breeze.

Once, I thought to pluck one, a flower born of shade,

But in my hand, it withered, and the garden’s path decayed.

Now I wander endless nights, where no stars ever glow,

And I can hear them breathing still, where the shadows grow.